“Or maybe it’s a test,” Corran said. “To see if we’re worthy of his favor.”
Aiden snorted. “I think you’ve already proven your worth. But that’s my opinion. No, I think your bonds with Rigan might be exactly the beacon we need to call him to where we’re going to open a Rift—assuming we can figure out how to do that.”
“Is there some way I can use the bond to communicate with him?” Corran asked. Grief and worry tore at him.
“Maybe,” Aiden replied. “Gods, you’re giving me a series of impossible tasks! If it’s possible, it would probably be through dreams. That seems to be the time when your mind is the most open. There are plenty of stories of people dreaming about a loved one far away and seeing something they’re doing or warning them of danger. So it certainly wouldn’t be unheard of.” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “The trick is, doing it on purpose. In the stories I’ve heard, it’s something that just sort of happens. Like my foresight—I can’t control it.”
He sighed. “All right, we’ve got a task for tomorrow. But I’ve reached the point—between the small handwriting on those manuscripts and the whiskey and how late it is—that I can’t think anymore. So I’m going to try to sleep. You should, too. Then you and Elinor and I will start looking through books again tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Corran replied. “I don’t know—”
Aiden laid a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll figure this out. I’ll do everything I can to get them home safely.”
Corran nodded, unable to say anything as his throat tightened. Both men knew that Aiden’s promise depended on many things that might be far outside their power to control.
Chapter Fifteen
“This isn’t the city. You can’t just kill people to get what you want.” Viktyr Helton weathered Hant Jorgeson’s glare and did not flinch.
“I give the orders,” Jorgeson growled.
“I’m responsible for the lives of my soldiers, sir,” Helton replied evenly. “And out here, things work differently.”
Jorgeson swept the papers from the corner of his desk. “Out here, things don’t seem to work at all, from what I can see.”
He had to grudgingly admire the fact that Helton stood his ground.
“With all due respect, sir, our mission from the Crown Prince was to assist you in hunting the fugitives and keeping peace in the farmlands. I can assure you that burning out their crops to force them to give you information will do neither.” He stood ramrod straight, jaw set to endure Jorgeson’s anger.
“I’ve found that people become more reasonable when they understand the consequences of their actions,” Jorgeson replied.
“In my experience, sir, I’ve learned that people who have nothing to lose will spite you to their dying breath.”
Jorgeson paced from corner to corner in his office. “We’ve been out here for months! We know someone is killing the monsters, but no one seems to ever see anything. More than once, when your soldiers or my bounty hunters thought they caught the outlaws’ trail, the villagers found a way to block their path or delay them.”
“The hunters mostly work at night, m’lord. If the villagers fear that monsters are about, they won’t be out in their fields and forests after dark.”
“Do you deny that they’ve blocked us from going after the fugitives?” Jorgeson’s fists clenched at his sides. If it were entirely up to him, he’d have the defiant young captain hauled away in chains. But Helton was both Crown Prince Aliyev’s gift and his operative. Aliyev had made it clear that the soldiers and witches he provided were on loan, not Jorgeson’s to do with as he saw fit. And always, behind everything, lay the threat that Jorgeson’s time was running out.
“No, m’lord—but that is suspicion, not something we can prove. And if the hunters are offering the villagers protection against the monsters, it will be difficult to get them to turn against the outlaws.”
Jorgeson’s fist came down hard on the wooden desk. “That’s why I said to burn their fields. Take hostages. Do something!”
A tic twitched at the corner of Helton’s jaw. “M’lord,” he said in a reasonable voice. “Our guards and the other patrols of the Crown Prince are vastly outnumbered, should the farmers choose to rise up against us. If our men at least made a pretense of eliminating the monsters, we might gain some favor and supporters—who then might provide information.”
“What of the bounty? That’s enough gold to let a man live quite well for the rest of his days. Surely one of these farmers would grab the chance to rise from squalor.”
“Gold does not mean as much to some people, m’lord,” Helton replied. “And if they perceive the hunters as saviors, protecting their families and livelihoods, they might consider that more precious than gold.”
“Fools,” Jorgeson snarled. “If we can’t buy their cooperation or frighten them into it, how are we supposed to get what we want?” He paced the room, wishing he had an outlet for his rage. Helton remained unruffled, though Jorgeson felt certain he saw a flicker of judgment in the other man’s eyes.
“We set traps, perhaps,” Helton replied. “Cage up a couple of monsters for our use, and then let them out in a place of our choosing. Let it be known that there’s a problem. Tempt the hunters into coming to save the day.”
“Perhaps,” Jorgeson said, unwilling to yield ground.
“Ideally, if we knew when the monsters would show up and where, we could be waiting to catch the hunters, but that’s impossible. Those things come and go at the whim of the gods.”
Jorgeson knew better, but he dared not say so. Only a few among the higher echelon knew that some of the monsters were called and controlled by magic, wielded for vengeance and profit against enemies or their proxies, sating the Cull. Blackholt’s death removed one of the blood witches summoning monsters, but Jorgeson knew that Aliyev and perhaps even some of the other Merchant Princes had their mages who worked death magic that required the Balance, like the two useless blood witches Aliyev had sent into the countryside with Jorgeson.
“If the hunters can hear of monsters, so can you. Get your men in the field and find out where the creatures are, and then wait for the hunters and attack when they arrive,” Jorgeson ordered.
Helton’s face gave away none of his thoughts, but Jorgeson saw the man square his shoulders and stiffen his spine. “As you wish, m’lord.”
Jorgeson walked to the rundown shack and forced down his fear. Aliyev had given him two blood witches of middling power whose magic, as far as Jorgeson could tell, had little practical application.
The shack had been a compromise. Jorgeson did not want to have the witches living under his roof, but he needed to have them close by, somewhere he could access their abilities and keep an eye on them. Perhaps Aliyev wished to be rid of them, as well as me. He’s given me broken tools and expects me to do a job with them.
Amulets of bone and hair hung on leather straps from rusted nails around the doorframe. Runes carved into the wood and painted on with blood served notice that unexpected visitors were unwelcome. Freshly turned dirt mounds around the yard signaled that those who entered often did not return. Once he got within a dozen paces of the shack, the air felt oppressive, and a sense of dread slithered up his spine. Theater, that’s all it is. They’ve probably worked some kind of spell to make people uneasy, scare them off. Nothing but a street performer’s tricks, Jorgeson thought.
He was not afraid. Aliyev gave me these witches. They’re in this just as deep as I am now. They might spy on me, but if I fail, they go down with me. And I’ll make sure they never forget that.
Jorgeson did not bother knocking. He did, however, call out to announce himself. Surprising a witch was dangerous. He strode into the shack, resisting the impulse to wrinkle his nose. The cabin reeked of old blood, tanned hides, and an unpleasant mixture of alchemist potions.
“What have you got for me?” he demanded.
The two witches looked up from the mixture they were concocting. Aliyev had t
old Jorgeson their names, but Jorgeson knew that witches generally went by an alias, something about keeping enemies from using the “power of their true name” against them. Their witch names were pretentious and ominous, and Jorgeson couldn’t be bothered to remember them.
He thought of the thin, twitchy one as “Spider” and the stocky, dark-haired man as “Roach.” It amused him to see the dislike of his nicknames whenever he addressed them, but that couldn’t possibly match his distaste for them and their infernal magic. They were stuck with each other, and he did not intend to let them forget it.
“We’ve been scrying,” Spider said. He pointed to the wide, shallow bowl of liquid on the table between him and Roach. “Searching for your missing hunters.”
“Since your neck is as much on the block as mine over this, I’d suggest you consider them to be ‘our’ missing fugitives,” Jorgeson snapped.
“As you wish, m’lord,” Spider said with an unctuous grace that did not fool Jorgeson. “We believe they are being shielded. Their trail is very difficult to trace.”
“If it were easy, I’d have a pack of dogs and be done with it,” Jorgeson fumed. “What have you found?”
“We catch glimmers of them, m’lord,” Roach replied. “Like catching a glimpse of someone out of the corner of your eye. But as soon as we try to fix their location, they vanish.”
“How is that possible?”
“We know two of them are witches,” Spider said. “They’ve probably made amulets for the others to hide them.”
“What of the witches? Can you track them?”
“Not to a specific location. We’ve caught the echo of their magic, and we recognize the signature of their power, but by the time we pick something up, it’s there and gone.”
“You’re both useless!” Jorgeson raged. “What can you do?”
“I can tell you that witches in Sarolinia—who aren’t as good at shielding—have been summoning monsters here in Ravenwood,” Spider said with a sly smile. “I don’t think those witches expect anyone to be looking for them. Twice now within a week, they’ve opened a Rift inside our border.”
“How can you be certain the magic is coming from Sarolinia?”
“They aren’t making any attempt to hide,” Roach answered. “We’re far from the city, and neither the Crown Prince nor the Merchant Princes would have cause to keep witches out here in the country under normal circumstances. Who else would notice, or realize what they were seeing if they did pick up on the surge?”
“What reason would Sarolinia have to conjure monsters in Ravenwood?” Jorgeson said. But as soon as the words passed his lips, possibilities came to mind. After Machison’s debacle with the trade agreement, Ravenwood’s competitors within the League no doubt saw them as weakened, compromised, easy prey. Sarolinia had been quick to benefit from the downfall of its northern neighbor, Kasten. Perhaps they’ve decided not to wait for fate and step in and benefit from hastening Ravenwood’s disgrace.
“I would think that to be obvious, m’lord,” Spider said with an ingratiating smile that looked to Jorgeson more like a cat toying with a mouse it intended to eat. “They’re meddling, for their own ends.”
“Can you stop them?”
“Not without revealing we’ve noticed what they’re doing.” Roach wiped his hands on his work robe. “We’d lose our ability to watch them without them being aware.”
Jorgeson swore under his breath. “Can you conjure monsters across their border? Can you summon monsters at all?”
Spider’s expression grew hard and calculating. “No, m’lord. As you knew when we were provided to you. The Crown Prince wishes to reserve that power to his own blood witches.”
“I want to trap the hunters,” Jorgeson growled. “They show up where monsters appear. Can you do something that creates a similar effect?”
Roach looked intrigued by the suggestion. “We can work on it,” he said, frowning as he thought. “We can open Rifts; but we aren’t permitted to call monsters.”
“Out here, I’m your authority, and our task is to do what the Crown Prince requires,” Jorgeson replied. “I give you permission to call monsters if that is what it will take to keep Sarolinia at bay.”
“And you will explain this if the Crown Prince objects?” Roach asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Gods, yes! Just find me those damn outlaws!”
“There is another… possibility.” They turned to look at Spider. “When we work blood magic near where a Rift opens, I’ve sensed a… presence… like a voice in the distance.”
Roach nodded. “I’ve felt it too, but I wasn’t sure it was real.”
A cunning expression stole over Spider’s hard-featured face. “Oh, I believe it’s real. The question is, have we found a more powerful sort of monster, or might we have touched the god of chaos, Colduraan, himself?”
“I don’t believe in the gods,” Jorgeson said with a snort. “But if this thing you sense is a new monster, I want to know all about it. Perhaps we’ve only seen the kinds closest to the ‘doorway’ when it opens, and there might be other creatures that would better suit our purposes.” He glanced from one witch to the other. “Find out what you can, and report back to me.”
Spider nodded. “In the meantime, we’ve created some of the elixir you requested.” He reached over to the table behind him and selected a small vial of blue liquid. “This will force a man to tell you the truth. Mind that you use it carefully; it could permanently damage the person who takes it. Forcing the mind never ends well.”
“How much does it require?”
“That should be enough to dose three full-grown men. The ingredients are difficult to find and very expensive, so use it carefully—I can’t guarantee that we can make more,” Spider cautioned.
“I’ll use it as I see fit,” Jorgeson snapped. “If you can’t tell me more about the hunters, what can you report about Sarolinia’s other dealings?”
“We scry their coastline every day, but we’ve seen no ships beyond what is to be expected from League trade. The Crown Prince is tightly shielded; we can’t pick up anything from him or his witch—we’ve tried.” Roach’s expression practically dared Jorgeson to challenge his assertion.
“Useless,” Jorgeson muttered.
“There is one thing,” Spider added. “We’ve picked up traces of magic along the river. Not the same as the glimpses we’ve seen of the hunters. Different power signature—very different. We mapped where we’ve sensed the disturbances, and it’s always up and down the waterways. Hard to get a fix on it; we think they’re using deflection charms, but not particularly good ones.”
“Along the river?” Jorgeson echoed. “Could they be boats?”
Roach nodded. “That’s our thought. But why those boats would need to deflect magic—or even expect to do so—escapes me.”
“Can you tell me anything else about these traces along the river?”
“They only happen at night, and not every night,” Roach said. “They don’t come all the way up to the headwaters, just move from the mouth of the river through the widest section and back again. And always after midnight.”
Smugglers, thieves, pirates, or all three, Jorgeson mused. Most likely from Sarolinia. Aliyev wanted me to keep an eye on them. This might help me.
Jorgeson fixed both witches with a glare. “I want everything you can find out about those flickers you’re picking up along the river. See if you can find a pattern of the days and times they come, or if you can map their stops. Even better, figure out where they come from. And find those bloody hunters!”
With that, he turned and strode from the cabin, letting the rickety wooden door slam behind him.
Jorgeson slowed his pace before he reached the abandoned house on the other side of the small yard from the witches’ shack. He preferred to squat in empty buildings rather than take a room at the inn, both to save on scarce coin and to avoid notice. Often enough, he disguised himself and went into one town or another, nursing a dr
ink in the pub, listening to the locals’ gossip, hoping to pick up word about the fugitive hunters. So far, he had overheard little of any use, and nothing that led him to his quarry.
Spider and Roach were like dull knives when he needed a razor-sharp sword. He cursed again, damning Aliyev for sending him on this quest with the promise of redeeming himself only to undercut him at every turn.
It’s never been about “redemption.” Just a stay of execution. He’s given me enough rope to hang myself.
The ramshackle house had stood empty long enough that every night required chasing away the mice and rats which had claimed it as their own. It suited his purposes, with a stable for his guards and their horses, the shack for his witches—he could not bring himself to think of them as “mages” given their limited talents—and a place he could be alone.
Jorgeson walked into the house and lit the lanterns. They made it easier to see the shabby conditions which were now his lot. He only used the one room with the fireplace, not trusting the overhead beams or the wood of the stairs to support him on the second floor. He had no use for the other downstairs room, except to have one guard at all times keeping watch there, out of his sight.
He’d had the guards sweep out the two rooms when they first arrived. Too much damage had been done to make the old place truly livable, but at least it was no longer disgusting. Jorgeson’s scant possessions gave him a faint sense of familiarity. His trunk held clothing and essentials and doubled as a chair. The previous owner had left behind a wobbly, scarred table which served for eating and as a desk. The fireplace worked without smoking up too badly, and he had a few tin pots, which sufficed for cooking.
Jorgeson withdrew a flask from beneath his jacket and took a long drink. He had little more to show for the past three months than he’d had when he started this misbegotten quest, and Aliyev’s patience would not be limitless. While he could not earn full absolution by succeeding, he would cement his ignominy by failure. Not that there was anyone left to care.
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