Grace of the Goddess (The Death Dealer Book 3) (3 page)

              “I
did
say I’d be by.” He kept his voice even, but Ridley saw him getting his shaky hands under control.

              Ridley sat at the table. “This whole business has me on edge. I was out all day trying to gather information.”

              Jack dislodged the knife and sat across from Ridley, sliding the blade back to her. Ridley let it stay where it was.

              “Learn anything?” He eyed the rolls quickly before letting his eyes settle on Ridley. Even guards couldn’t afford fresh bread these days.

              Ridley grabbed a roll, split it in two, and offered him the smaller half. Not insulted by the slight, he took it.

              “Only the usual theories. You’re the Dealer. Thom’s the Dealer, under the yoke of Marcus. The Dealer’s a ghost. Duke Brayden killed himself and his men are covering it up. People are glad he’s dead. People are sad. People are indifferent. They only agree that he is, in fact, dead.”

              Jack nodded and chewed thoughtfully while she spoke. Once he swallowed, he still said nothing.

              “Please tell me you have something,” Ridley said when the silence stretched on longer than she liked.

              “Almost the entirety of the Guard thinks this is the Guild’s doing.”

              “Captain Moore was here about just that.” Ridley picked at her half of the roll. She rolled some of the innards between her fingers, making a doughy ball, and popped it into her mouth, relishing the taste of fresh bread.

              “I wouldn’t be concerned about Moore. He’s operating under the orders of the four remaining magistrates. He’s not entirely convinced of the Guild’s involvement, but because you live in his district, it is his duty to check around.”

              “At least he thinks we’re innocent.”

              Jack shrugged. “’Innocent’ is a strong word. He hasn’t made a final ruling on your folk, but he’s smart enough to know that people who are killed by the Guild disappear. Not to mention that murderers are rare in your ranks, and they certainly don’t kill men like the Duke. Anyone with half a brain knows Marcus wouldn’t pay the high price of an assassin, but this hasn’t stopped the nervous magistrates from pointing fingers at Rogue’s Lane. Moore will likely question you, dog Marcus, and hold whatever thieves he can find for the time being.”

              “So, pretty much what he has been doing since becoming a captain?” Ridley didn’t bother to hide the disdain in her voice. Jack just shook his head.

              “What does Marcus say?”

              “Not much. He’s sending Thom to Arganis.”

              Jack’s face remained passive, only sadness flickered in his eyes. “You didn’t tell him what you saw?”

              “Yes. He said she could have made herself taller, and that unless she can be accounted for up there, she’s not to be ruled out down here.”

              “Marcus is being foolish.” Jack pushed away from the table and stood. “He may need Thom here should things boil over. His power isn’t what it used to be, and sending his second on a fool’s errand will only hurt him.” He gave Ridley a smile and turned on his heel to leave.

              “What if she
did
make herself taller? Or used some trick to deceive anyone who witnessed her crime?”

              Jack’s shoulders slumped. He was the wrong man to ask such questions. He looked over his shoulder at her. Ridley expected to see rage burning in his eyes; that unbridled hatred he had for anyone who spoke ill of his lady. Instead he looked sad and tired. “Do you think she would murder him in cold blood?”

              Ridley ripped the rest of her roll into little bits. “No.”

              “Neither do I.”

~*~*~

“You’re making a mistake,” Thom said. He’d been with Marcus for many years now and refused to soften his words. “You can’t possibly believe she had anything to do with His Grace’s murder.”

The men walked through the city graveyard, where no one else trespassed for fear that the ghosts of the dead would follow them home and haunt them. Thom didn’t believe in ghosts, so he sniffed at the tales of the superstitious. Thankfully enough people in the city were terrified, thus making it the perfect meeting spot.

“She betrayed me once,” Marcus said, his voice low. “She broke her oath.”

Thom spit into the cold dirt. “Damn your oath.
You
expected her to bring in a man for you to kill.”

Marcus stopped and eyed Thom. In the dark, Thom could see his friend’s eyes, bright and unblinking in the starlight, with the glassy look of unshed tears. Marcus was breaking under the pressure. Thom sighed and touched Marcus’s shoulder, letting him know he remained steadfast even in his own frustrations.

“You know she didn’t kill His Grace.”

“And what if she did? Anyone can be bought.” Marcus’s tone wavered. His own uncertainty showed when he looked away and continued to walk between the headstones.

“No,” Thom said. “Grace cannot be bought, not like this. Why are you
really
trying to get me to go to Arganis?”

Marcus stopped. He didn’t turn to Thom, but stared upwards, looking to the sky for answers. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I want her to come back,” he said after a considerable pause.

Thom blinked and shook his head, not sure he heard correctly. “Didn’t you just call her an oath breaker? And now you want me to go and fetch her back?”

Marcus chuckled into the dark and turned to Thom, an odd smile pasted on his lips. “Who better to chase off a fake Dealer than the real one?”

Thom said nothing in response, although he didn’t quite believe Marcus’s explanation. Certainly while the real Death Dealer patrolled Glenbard imposters stayed away, but that was not a good enough reason to bring her back from Arganis.

“Glenbard is falling apart at the seams. Our people are starving, Thom. Now a pretender appears and stabs the chief magistrate?”

“And what does Grace have to do with this? You want me to fetch her so she can take the blame? Act as a scapegoat?” Thom’s heart beat heavily in his chest. He had always gone to great lengths for Marcus, but this was asking too much.

“I want her to find the real murderer and drag him before the remaining magistrates, as she wanted to do with Harris Atkins. Grace can move about unseen and unheard, so who better to sneak into the dark places of Glenbard without detection?”

“And if she says no? Or what if the murderer is found before we return?”

“If the murderer is found we can still use her skills, and if she refuses we’ll have wasted nothing but our time.”

“It’s folly, Marcus.” Thom meant it. Marcus pinned his hope and his plans on someone who ran from Glenbard, discarding her past in favor of a brighter future. There was nothing to be gained from seeking her out, and everything to be lost.

“I am
asking
you to go to Arganis. Do not make me command it of you.”

Thom put his hands on Marcus’s shoulders and hugged him. Marcus’s body was rigid with tension, but he eased a little in Thom’s arms. “As you wish,” Thom said softly.

Two

              Grace Hilren ran, wearing only her nightgown as she sprinted south on the king’s road. Her dark blonde hair flew out behind her in wild streams. She knew the forest around her well, as she’d spent the happiest years of her life in them. The sturdy pines, the lofty oaks, the lifeblood of Arganis was in these trees. She knew them so well she could navigate them in her sleep. She also knew this was not the same forest.

              She stopped at a fork in the road where there had never been one before. Sweat made her hair and nightgown stick to her skin. Down the right path was fire, eating away at her beloved trees, devouring and destroying anything caught in its path. To the left, blood slowly crept up the trail, drowning out everything and splashing against the tree trunks. Between the pathways stood a statue of a great black marble wolf, its eyes made of rounded silver, raised on a stone pedestal. This was not the docile wolf Grace remembered from the temple of Diggery in Glenbard. This image of the goddess of lost souls stood poised for a fight. It stood on all fours, hackles up, head down, ears flattened, teeth bared.

             
Choose
, the statue said. Grace stepped backwards on the path.
CHOOSE!
the statue insisted. Grace watched in terrified fascination as the marble of the wolf cracked. Large pieces fell off, revealing a very live, very angry wolf. Its eyes shone brightly, like silver stars against the midnight black of its fur. It snarled and leapt off the pedestal toward Grace.

              Grace woke with a start, kicking her blankets off in an attempt to be free of the wolf’s jaws. Her heart pounded against her ribcage as she looked around the room, relieved to discover she lay in her chambers. Everything was as it had been when she went to sleep. She sat up on her straw mattress on the flimsy bed frame. Her night table still held a porcelain pitcher and wash basin waiting for her to drink and wash her face. The trunk she kept near the door was open, showing her clothes neatly folded inside. Everything remained as it was when she laid down to sleep. It was a dream. A dream that was becoming all too familiar.

              Since returning to Arganis, Grace had taken up residence in an unused room set off from the kitchen. At one point, when she was an infant, the room belonged to the head cook. Once the cook married, she moved to town. The occasional messenger would sleep there, but otherwise the room went unused.

              In theory, Grace shouldn’t even have been living there. The King decreed she was not to mingle with the nobility any longer, although no one in Arganis gave it much heed. On official papers, documenting the expenses and servants living in Arganis, Grace was listed merely as “Grayson Miller, Guard.” Her life back at home started anew and her family took her back despite the disgrace she brought on them. Living in the room off the kitchen was a mercy compared to the life that waited for a fallen noblewoman elsewhere in the realm.

              Someone knocked at her door. “Grace, you better not still be abed!” Grace’s old handmaiden, Cassandra, shouted through the door.

              In the months since returning, it had taken the woman some time to drop decorum and titles when speaking to her former mistress, but now Cassandra treated Grace the same as she treated her friends in town. Grace enjoyed the equality now awarded to her. She’d always viewed Cassandra as a friend and was blind to the class gap between them. Now that one did not exist, Cassandra joked freely and vented her frustrations in a way she never had before.

              “Come in, Cassandra,” Grace called. She swung her legs onto the floor and the freezing stone tiles sent chills up her body. She gritted her teeth and got out of bed, though climbing under the warmth of the sheets was preferable.

              Cassandra ambled in. She was a plump woman with auburn hair and kind, hazel eyes. Although only a few years older than Grace, she still acted like a mother hen. She came to the castle from town every morning before first light to get her day started. She still liked to help Grace do her hair, which was a blessing because Grace needed all the help she could get some days.

              “You’re barely awake!” Cassandra moved around with practiced efficiency, opening the shutters first. The gray morning light helped brighten the little room. Next, she poured water into Grace’s basin while Grace retrieved her uniform. Then she picked up a brush from the nightstand, holding it like a weapon. She sat on the bed and waited.

              “How can you just be waking?”

              “I had the dream again.”

              “Oh,” Cassandra said, any snarky remark she had falling from her lips unspoken. “You know the priests teach us that such dreams are prophetic gifts from the gods, and to be chosen is an honor, indeed.”

              “Then they might take the honor from me. I would like uninterrupted sleep for a change,” Grace replied sulkily, pulling on her gray trousers.

              “Such blasphemy. It
is
an honor to be chosen, whether you see it or not.”

              Grace turned her back to Cassandra as she removed her nightgown and rolled her eyes so her friend wouldn’t see her annoyance. She slipped on a white shirt and put a knee-length, sleeveless navy blue tunic with silver trim on top. Embroidered in silver thread on the chest was the hawk of Arganis. In one talon it held a sword, and in the other a scroll. It served as the official uniform of the Arganis guard.

              “I do not like the dream, Cassandra,” Grace said. She turned back toward Cassandra. “I did not ask Diggery to elect me as her mortal vessel.”

              “I don’t think anyone
asks
the gods such things, Grace.” She reached a hand under the bed and grabbed Grace’s boots. “Sit down.”

              Grace took her spot on the floor in front of Cassandra. She pulled on the boots as Cassandra set to work on her hair.

              Grace kept her hair long, despite constant warnings to cut it. Her uncle reminded her that it served as a liability in combat. Grace had Cassandra do her hair because the two devised a little trap for anyone who grabbed it. Cassandra combed out Grace’s hair, her hands working fast and nimbly to secure a pincushion inside an elaborate bun. The needles would do little damage, but they provided a nasty surprise. They also provided Grace the chance to get the upper hand. Of course it also meant needles stuck in her head if she fell wrong, but thanks to Cassandra’s talents, her hair would take most of the impact.

              “I don’t suppose you gave any thought to working in town at The Pig and Flute.” Cassandra tugged at Grace’s hair, putting the strands where they needed to go.

              “I’ve been a serving girl before. It doesn’t suit me.”

              “And having to protect your hair with needles does? Ugh, I suppose I should know better than to bother talking about it with you. You never did want to set aside the sword.”

              When Grace still wore the hood of the Death Dealer, Cassandra made her piece known, but ultimately deferred the decision to Grace. Now that Grace was a servant, Cassandra’s pronouncements about her living life doing what she deemed as “men’s work” got louder and more frequent. For Grace, it was the only real downside to being on equal footing with her.

              “There, done.” Cassandra patted Grace on the head to let her know it was time to get up.

              From under the bed, Grace grabbed her belt and safely secured her sword and sheath. She looped it around her waist, letting the sword hang off to the right side. She grabbed a fur-lined jacket from her trunk. It was tattered, too large, and smelled a bit, but it was warm.

              “Thank you, Cassandra. I shall be by for dinner tonight.”

              Cassandra waved her hands in annoyance. “Aye, aye, off with you now, though. You’ll miss muster if you don’t hurry.”

~*~*~

              The castle in Arganis was small but functional, with a great hall, a library, and a few guest rooms on the upper floors. The windows on the lower floors were cut into the stone as mere slits. Easy for archers to shoot out of, but harder for archers to attempt to shoot in. The lone tower had bigger, more elaborate stained glass windows. The noble family of Arganis lived there, occupying the six family rooms, each with their own solar, and then a smaller dining room for private meals. Grace’s old room in the tower looked out to the south. Her view growing up had been of trees, trees, and more trees; an evergreen sea that moved with the winds.

              A stone wall surrounded the castle with one main gate entrance that faced south along the king’s road, and four small guard stations stood along the ramparts to keep watch in case trouble came. The courtyard was large enough for the townsfolk to set up a camp if raiders came in from the sea. The stables were located on the north end with the guard barracks next to them. There was a training yard on the east side of the courtyard. When Grace’s cousin was training for his knighthood, it served as a sword ring and a jousting ring. Now it was used for guard training.

              On top of the castle, the hawk banner of Arganis blew in the wind. The silver and blue stood proudly, proclaiming to everyone that the Hilren family currently resided at the castle. It made Grace smile to see it.

              Around her, men filed into the courtyard; some coming from the town and others from the barracks. The guards coming off the night watch nodded and greeted the day watch as they shuffled past. All were tired and feeling the morning chill, even though half of them wore coats that matched Grace’s to keep warm. The men circled around one man who stood in the center of the courtyard.

              Leon Hilren was not a tall man. None of the men in the Hilren line had been blessed with height. He did not tower above the men he commanded, but he did have their respect. The squat, bowlegged man had white hair and a scraggly beard he hadn’t bothered to trim in days. He wore the same uniform as the other guards, but over his he sported a leather jerkin and fine, if worn out, riding boots. The sword belted around his waist was of a fine make, from the finest swordsmith in Escion. It had a sapphire inlaid in the pommel, the only piece of finery Leon ever bothered to own.

              The men respected their commander, and in turn, that respect extended to Grace. Some may not have liked his niece joining their ranks, but they knew better than to say anything about it. Slowly, Grace proved to them she was a worthy comrade. She took the worst guard duties when Leon would try to place her at gate duty. She mucked the stables and ran errands in an effort to show them she was not a lady anymore. She was a guard, whether or not her uncle was the guard commander.

              Leon cleared his throat and the men who were circled around him fell silent. “A frosty morning, isn’t it lads?” There were some grumbles and a few chuckles. “I’ve not much to say this morning. The servants are busy at work preparing for Sir Calvin’s wedding, and we must do the same. Those of you with patrols through the woods will be expected to check the wolf traps. Game was scarce again this season, and I’ll not have those beasts coming into town again looking for food. Try to chase them south, but if they show aggression, kill them.”

              The entire winter before, the guards hunted wolves through the forests. The poor animals didn’t have enough food to sustain their packs and so they turned to humans to survive. As such, two young children had been caught unawares. Grace knew it was important to drive the wolves off, but she felt wrong attacking the chosen animal of her patron goddess. It was the only duty she refused to perform.

              “Any who have sword training, we’ll be working from horseback today. You’ll be responsible for your mount. If any stable hand comes to me with tales that a horse has been neglected, you’ll be spending some time sleeping with the beast to make sure it doesn’t take ill from misuse.”

              Grace shuffled her feet. She was not set for training today. That meant port duty.

              “Those going into town for the monthly shipment, see to it that no unsavory folk get off those ships. We have a lot to worry about with the wedding, and I don’t want strangers with ill intent lurking around.”

              From the castle entrance, something caught Grace’s eyes. She looked past Leon to a lithe figure in a white nightgown, ambling toward the guards. Grace’s breath caught in her throat and she noticed she wasn’t the only one to switch attentions from Leon. Her uncle turned around and the crowd behind him parted to award him a better view. Grace saw his fists clench.

              “Leon, dear,” the figure called across the courtyard. “I wonder if you might know when Daniel is set to return?”

              Leon swung around and pointed at Grace. “Go on, see to her.”

              Without needing further instruction, Grace trotted through the circle of men to retrieve the woman.

              Goosebumps covered her arms; the thin nightgown did nothing to keep the cold out. The woman had graying blonde hair she hadn’t bothered to comb, and it hung down her back in a knotted mess. She was frail and small. Though she was a few inches taller than Grace, the young woman could have easily carried her mother inside.

              “Mother, it is too cold for you to be out here.” Grace took her mother’s hand and turned her back the way she came.