King's Folly (Book 2) (30 page)

A lashing wind whipped at his cloak, and he reached out a hand, steadying his nervous mount with a promise of shelter. His destination was within sight, nestled between the Viscount’s reserve and a cliffside that plunged into the ocean’s surf. Tharios’ residence was one manor among many. The lords did not like to be near the stench of the city. They liked to look down from their lofty perches, but Isek had always preferred to be hidden.

Without urging, his horse stopped in front of a heavy gate. White washed walls guarded the property, topped by artful renditions of twining iron vines. The outside wall was warded. Only a truly foolish thief, or a very skilled one, risked robbing the manors on the hill. Wise Ones were always in high demand for their wards.

The gatekeeper emerged from his house, peering through the iron and sleet from beneath a wind-blown hood.

“Isek Beirnuckle for the Archlord,” he shouted over the winds. “I have urgent news.”

“The Archlord is not to be disturbed.”

“This cannot wait. Tell him as much.”

The gatekeeper narrowed his eyes and dipped his bushy chin, leaving Isek to wait and shiver in the restless wind. Tharios did not surround himself with fools.

A Whisper would have been sufficient, but over the years, Isek had learned to deliver important information in person. It reminded the recipient of the informer’s loyalty, and if Isek were to continue in the realm of the living, Tharios needed many such reminders.

A smaller gate opened within the larger, inviting horse and rider inside. The moment Isek passed the threshold, the wind died, and the sleet lessened its constant battering to a nipping annoyance. Beirnuckle handed the reins to a stableboy, and turned to greet a Wise One. Victer, a former merchant guard of the Golden Road, was a large, broad-shouldered man. His militant training had stayed with him, and his spine was as erect as ever.

“You’re too smart a man to disturb the Archlord unless it’s important. I’d not make this exception for another,” Victer said in his deep, rumbling tones.

“Your confidence is not misplaced.” Isek nodded to the pale-haired Wise One, swallowing his surprise over Victer’s presence. Tharios certainly inspired loyalty in the unlikeliest of people. But then, how much had Tharios told Victer, or the others for that matter? The Archlord’s smooth tongue was very persuasive.

Victer led the way around the manor to the back of the estate. A neat row of trees, interspersed with garden squares and fountains, remained untouched by the weather. An enchantment, Isek surmised; a very skilled one. Tharios liked order and things in their places, defying nature and leaving nothing to chance.

The cultured grounds were misleading, considering what dwelled beneath. Isek walked into a stone outhouse, and down a gaping staircase that led to the heart of decay. There must be, he thought, a way to mask the small building. Or the Inquisitors, ever pompous with lofty ideals, never bothered to look inside something that appeared to be a lowly gardener’s storage shed.

Undefiled air became a thing of memory as his boot hit the bottom step. Incense assailed his senses with a sharp odor of lye that failed to mask the sickly sweetness of death. The stench clawed down his throat and permeated his mind.

An immense ritual chamber lay beyond, typical of any Bloodmagi, save for its size. The corrals were empty of victims, but the memory of their slaughter lingered. A ritual chamber was never fully cleansed; no matter how many times the walls were scrubbed.

Guards stood stationed around the walkways, alert, attentive, and professional. Isek’s eye was drawn to the very center of the ritual circle, to the crimson clad man tracing in the sand. Tharios drew one’s eye like a light in the darkness. He wore a half-robe of silk in the Xaionian style that displayed a sleek chest and a maze of tattoos flowing over alabaster skin.

Isek and Victer skirted the ritual pit, and then stopped, waiting in silence for the Archlord to acknowledge them. Tharios did not look up, but remained focused on his work. The pattern of runes was familiar in that vague way that shadows in darkness take shape, more imagination than reality.

“I suspect you have a good reason for coming here, Isek.” Tharios never took his eyes from the sand. “So I suggest you get right to the point. Let us hope I agree with your assessment.”

“Morigan recently received a message from a priestess in Drivel. The priestess needed assistance with a boy who showed up at her orphanage, near death: blow to the head, gouges on his wrists, and a Weave of Silence on his throat.”

One symptom without the other would not have been alarming, but all three together had perked Isek’s ears. Suggestive, to say the least. Marsais would have agreed, and by Tharios’ reaction, he did too.

The current Archlord looked up from his work with a thoughtful gaze that settled on Victer. “The boy who ran.”

“He was killed.”

“One was killed, yes, but it appears another may have slipped through the cracks in the chaos.”

“Impossible. He could have escaped from another situation.”

“I have never liked coincidence.” The Xaionian straightened, folding his hands behind his back in thought. Victer did not argue, though it was clear from his stance that he placed little value on the information. “Take care of this, Victer,” Tharios glanced at Isek, “and you as well—if you have the stomach for it. Your attention to detail is remarkable.”

“What if the boy has already talked?” Victer inquired dutifully.

“
If
, the boy has informed the priestess and Morigan of the ceremony, then remove the women, quietly.” Tharios paused and tilted his head, as if listening to someone whispering in his ear. “On second thought, I don’t want Morigan killed. She’s far too valuable as a healer, and she’ll give us little trouble. Put her in the dungeon and make her comfortable.”

Both men bowed, and turned to leave.

“And Isek,” the voice was thoughtful. “Would you like to be present when we open the flask?”

“Of course,” Isek said, lightly. Truth be told, he wanted to be as far from this ritual chamber as possible when the flask was opened, but it was another test of loyalty.

Tharios dismissed him with a wave.

❧

The wind tore at invisible cloaks. Six shapes rippled in the night, shimmering like a disturbed pond. Isek was not worried. There was no one to see them in the slums of Drivel, and if any eyes did, they’d look away. He slid his hand along a stone on the back of the orphanage, searching for the hidden rune.

Marsais loathed the obvious, he had always avoided front doors like the Blight. Isek, however, knew all his secret entrances—and exits. The teleportation rune was faded, but still functioning. The ward recognized his hand, and unraveled, revealing its secrets. Stone rippled like the invisibility weave that encased his body, and Isek ushered the five hidden men inside, sealing the gate on their heels before walking to the front.

There were too many men, too many voices and boots and opinions. Isek would have preferred to carry out this assignment alone, but Victer was a strategist who liked to issue orders to a group of underlings. So the plan was complex, where Isek’s had been simple and direct.

Now was not the time to argue with one of the Unspoken—not until Isek’s position was firmly established.

Isek dropped his weave and pounded on the heavy front door until the slat slid to the side and a pair of green eyes searched the night.

“What do you bloody want?”

Isek pushed back his cowl, revealing his bald pate and a wide smile. “You might remember me, Priestess. I handed you the key to this place some years back. I am Isek Beirnuckle.”

The priestess glared at him, and for a moment Isek feared his betrayal had been uncovered. But it was simply her memory.

“And I’ve been thankful ever since.” The door opened, revealing a tall, busty Nuthaanian. Brinehilde had not changed. Isek let his eyes linger briefly on the bosom that was eye level with his gaze, because men noticed such things. Details were imperative.

“What brings you here, sir? Not gonna take it back, I hope?” Her voice was loud. She was nervous, Isek surmised. He withdrew a crown from the folds of his cloak before handing the garment over, and began weaving the coin casually over his knuckles, surveying the sparse foyer. It was cold, but quiet compared to the wind and sleet.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “I have other news.”

“Well what is it, then?”

“With Marsais on the run, his properties and holdings have been seized by the Blessed Order.”

“It’s a shame, that,” Brinehilde frowned, tugging on her thick braid—another nervous habit.

“But I’ve arranged matters so ownership will pass to you.”

“The Sylph bless you,” she breathed with relief.

“It’s the least I can do,” he smiled, a perfectly rehearsed smile that always touched his eyes. “But given recent developments, I wanted to search the manor—in case he might have left anything dangerous behind.”

“The Blessed Order already searched the place. I’m sure the Sylph would have helped me find it by now.”

“Marsais was well known for his trickery.”

Brinehilde crossed a pair of arms that would make any man envious. The priestess had a reputation for cracking skulls. “Morigan and I don’t believe one word of this nonsense, but you can look if you like.”

“Have you spoken to Morigan recently? I’ve not seen her in the infirmary.”

“That’s cause she’s here. Been lookin’ after a boy for me.”

Isek smiled. Right on cue. “She is?” he asked with surprise.

“Aye, you want to see her? The boy’s still out cold, so you’ll have to keep your voice down.”

As easy as that, Isek had the answer he sought. The boy had not talked.

“I don’t want to disturb her.”

“It’s not a problem. She’s probably bored out of her mind. It’s likely the most rest she’s gotten in ages.” Brinehilde was already walking down one of the corridors, leading the way to the upper floor. Isek followed. Murder was messy—the more bodies that piled up, the higher the risk of discovery. Fortunately, the boy would not be missed.

Morigan sat in a chair beside the bed, her customary place when tending to the sick. Her hands were folded in her lap, but the moment he entered, her eyes snapped towards the door. The healer never slept deeply.

Isek smiled in greeting, gaze flickering over the boy on the bed. He was a skinny, brown little runt, and his shaggy hair was plastered to a fevered brow. The room smelled of sickness and hovering death. No one would suspect foul play when he died.

Morigan rose from her chair and patted his hand with motherly warmth. “What a surprise, Isek. It’s so good to see you here,” she whispered, urging him out of the room and a step away from the door.

“A surprise for me as well. I came on business, to prevent the Blessed Order from snatching the orphanage from Brinehilde.”

“And did you?”

Isek flashed a grin. “Do I ever fail?”

He was caught in a crushing embrace. Although the healer was short for her race, her strength left him fighting for breath.

“Imagine you thinking of the children at a time like this.” Morigan stepped back, retaining her firm grip on his biceps. Tears moistened her kindly eyes.

“Least I can do.” A shift of air slipped in the door behind him.

“I’ll fetch some cider for you both.” Brinehilde turned towards the kitchens.

“I don’t like the look of this lad’s wounds at all, Isek,” Morigan confided. “He had a Weave of Silence around his throat, and a right nasty one at that.”

At the end of the hallway, Brinehilde stopped dead in her tracks. And Isek Beirnuckle knew a failed plan when he saw one. Something had pricked the warrior’s instincts.

The priestess spun on her heel, charged down the hallway, knocked Isek and Morigan against the wall and barreled into the room. Through the open door, Isek watched Brinehilde swing at the invisible assailant hovering over the boy. Her fist connected with flesh. The invisibility weave unraveled and the priestess grabbed the dazed man, hurling him out of the room and into the opposite wall. Gabin Archer’s life was ended with a sickening crunch.

Morigan’s eyes widened in shock. A chant rose from an unseen Wise One at the end of the hallway. Brinehilde charged out of the room with a roar, slamming into an invisible guard, knocking him against the wall with a crunch of bone. A second guard attacked, popping into the light with sword raised. Brinehilde stepped into the chop catching a short blade on her shoulder, before driving her palm into the guard’s nose. The angle of the blow crushed his face. Victer rippled into view hurling a bolt of jagged energy at the Nuthaanian. It hit her square, but she shrugged it off and charged.

Morigan threw a bind at another chanting voice. The Unspoken gagged on the Lore, and the weave unraveled with devastating consequences—his skin hardened, cracked, and he fell over, shattering on the floorboards.

Brinehilde fell on Victer, pummeling him with all the protective rage of a mother bear. Another charge hit her, but her fists continued to fall. Isek darted into the small room, grabbed the boy off the bed and dragged him into the hallway.

“Stop, or the boy dies!”

Time moved strangely—as disbelief often did. Morigan and Brinehilde wanted to deny the words, to deny the moment and forget it ever occurred; but moments could not be returned. Shocked stilled the two women and horror froze them in Time. Brinehilde’s fist remained poised over a bloodied Victer. Blood oozed from the Wise One’s head. The hallway looked like a battlefield.

“It was you,” Morigan breathed. “How could you, Isek?”

“Let Victer go, Brinehilde.”

The priestess hesitated, looked from Isek to the boy, and dropped her foe. Her skin was red and mottled by the energy she had absorbed, and Victer hurled one more spiteful bolt—at point blank range. Brinehilde was blown off her feet, landing on the men she had killed.

Morigan tensed to assist Brinehilde, but Isek stopped her short with a jerk of his wrist towards the boy’s throat. “Stay where you are, Morigan.” The healer stopped, keeping one worried eye on Brinehilde and the other on the boy. “I don’t want to kill these children anymore than you want them to die, so here is what I propose: before the other children come stumbling into this little grim tableau, you are going to walk downstairs and let the older ones know that everything is fine. Victer will be standing by, so don’t think about warning them.”