Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Watchaven’s human Northmarch commander, Kirwin McFerrin, scowled at the trio before him. Coryden and Dualas flanked Morticai, who looked like he’d been in a brawl. He was uncertain as to whether they were there for moral or physical support. Morticai looked ill and unsteady on his feet. He also avoided looking directly at his commander—a definite sign of trouble. Kirwin glanced at his second-in-command, Phillip, who had already fetched Morticai’s file from the clerk’s office and now sat waiting patiently at his small writing desk, quill in hand.
Kirwin looked down at the file and sighed wearily. “All right, men—let’s hear it.”
Dualas and Coryden glanced at each other over Morticai’s head, deciding who would act as Morticai’s spokesman.
“Let’s start with you, Morticai,” Kirwin said, cutting them off.
Morticai looked up and gave Kirwin his best innocent look. The darkened circles beneath his eyes made him look almost comical. “I, uh, got into a bit of a tussle last night, sir.”
“So I see.”
“This guy stole my clothes.”
Dualas’s rolling eyes gave it away. “Is he lying, Sir Dualas?” Kierwin said.
Sir Dualas was full corryn, with coal black hair and deep green eyes. He thought carefully before he answered. A Knight of the Faith, he had been assigned to the Northmarch by his Order, and whether it was because of the reputation—or the reputed antics—of Coryden’s squad, or because of his close friendship with Coryden, he had always chosen to serve with them. Kirwin knew he could depend on Dualas for a truthful answer.
“No, sir—not exactly. Someone actually did steal his clothes, but that is not the most important issue. And I do not believe he knows that it was a man who stole them.”
“Why would some lady steal them?” Morticai asked.
“What? I don’t know!” Dualas replied.
That snapped it for Kirwin. “Enough! Let’s hear it—all of it—from the top, Morticai! I’ve got to be out of here before the Sanctorium strikes the hour.”
Morticai gave Kirwin a vague account of what had happened at Lord Aldwin’s manor. Kirwin’s face grew wearier with each sentence of Morticai’s report.
Dualas added that, in his expert opinion, Morticai would not be able to function on horseback for several days. Kirwin’s second-in-command faithfully recorded their words.
An uncomfortable pause followed. “Morticai,” Kirwin said, his voice rising almost to a bellow, “why do you constantly get involved in things like this! This is the second time this year you’ve crossed swords with the nobility! I hadn’t dreamed it was possible for you to get into more trouble than you did over that damned … courtesan!”
“But sir,” Morticai complained, “her lord was beating her. He would have killed her—you agreed with me that you would’ve done the same.”
Kirwin’s eyes narrowed. “No, mister! I said that I would have done what I could to help her run away. I would not have spirited her into Northgate to hide her! Besides, that’s not the issue here.” He stood and began pacing. “I ought to turn you over to the City Watch for this,” he muttered.
He stopped pacing and stood directly in front of Morticai. “What do you expect me to do the day you’re caught? What am I supposed to say to someone like Lord Aldwin? ‘I’m sorry, but Morticai is the only thief we have in the Northmarch. He’s had this problem for years’?”
“But,” Morticai began, “if he’s Droken—”
“And what proof do you have?” Kirwin interrupted. “Some papers covered with gibberish?”
Morticai looked bewildered.
“That’s the problem, mister! You may be right. But it’s none of our business! Not unless we catch him wearing his robes outside the city. This is work for the Faithful.”
He paused a moment, gazing suspiciously at Dualas. “Dualas, were you involved in this?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you know about it?”
“Not before last night, sir.”
“Coryden?”
Coryden shifted his weight uneasily. “I knew he had some information, sir. I didn’t know how he had gotten it. We were supposed to go to a ball last night.”
“Um-hm.” Kirwin shook his head in dismay. He walked to where his second-in-command sat and gestured for the officer to hand him the page he’d been penning.
“We can’t use this,” Kirwin muttered. “If we put this in the official record, we’ll have to turn him over to the City Watch.”
“What should I put down, sir?” his second asked.
Kirwin sighed. “Pen the following,” he instructed. “‘Morticai injured while off duty, refused to say how. Confined to quarters until able to resume patrol duties, unexcused patrol absence.’ That should do. Dock him for two cycles of patrol pay—and don’t forget to charge him for this page and whatever you had to throw away.”
“Hey!” Morticai complained. “That page cost me—”
Kirwin spun around, his face reddened by his anger. “You’d better be glad that’s all it’ll cost you, mister! You should get public lashes for this!”
Morticai fell silent and took up staring at the floor.
Kirwin returned to his desk. “I’d like to give you the punishment this calls for,” he added, pounding his fist down on the desk. “One more stunt like this, Morticai, and you’ll be based at Mid-Keep instead of Watchaven! Now, get the Darkness out of my office before I change my mind!”
“Yessir,” Morticai mumbled. He gave a sloppy salute, turned on his heel, swayed, and promptly dropped to the floor.
Coryden and Dualas caught him before he hit.
Kirwin shook his head and sat back down at his desk. “Get him out of here, you two, and see to his wounds.”
“Commander—” Coryden began.
“Captain,” Kirwin said in a dangerously low voice, “you are dismissed.”
* * *
Five days later, after an uneventful patrol, Coryden and Dualas paused before Morticai’s heavy wooden door. They could hear, coming from the other side, a thump-thump, thump-thump.
“Knives,” Coryden whispered.
“I’ve heard,” Dualas whispered back, “that his insistent practicing was the only trouble he caused while he was confined to quarters. The men in the barracks below had difficulty sleeping.”
Coryden shook his head and slowly opened the door. Morticai stood at the far end of the room. He’d pushed the table pushed back against the wall and had set up an array of knife targets around him. He whirled toward the window and let his last two knives fly toward a low target. He quickly spun back around.
“Thank Gods, you’re back!” Morticai said.
“We weren’t gone that long, Morticai,” Coryden said.
“Yeah, that’s easy for you to say! You weren’t cooped up in quarters with your head spinning for days.”
“You do seem to be quite improved by the experience, however,” Dualas noted.
“Well … yeah. Anyway, I’ve deciphered those notes I got at Aldwin’s, and they just don’t make any sense. I thought maybe you two could help.”
Coryden and Dualas exchanged glances—Morticai seemed to have already forgotten Kirwin’s threats. Meanwhile, Morticai had gone to his bed, flopped across it on his stomach, and was fishing beneath it.
A muffled ‘Ah’ came from under the bed, and Morticai sat up with a small wooden chest in his hands. He promptly dropped the chest and grabbed his head.
“Unngh.”
“Morticai?” Coryden asked. Dualas scowled.
Morticai reopened his eyes. “Oh, I’ll be all right. I should have known not to turn upside down.”
He opened the chest and pulled out a stack of papers.
“Morticai!” Coryden exclaimed. “Did all of that come from Aldwin’s?”
“Well, I certainly didn’t buy it,” Morticai replied.
Coryden rolled his eyes. Morticai handed one of the pages to Sir Dualas. Dualas’s scowl deepened.
“I think you should read this,” Dualas said shortly, handing the note to the Captain. “Are you certain you did this correctly?” Dualas asked, gesturing at the pile of papers that Morticai was digging through.
“Huh?” Morticai finally replied. “Oh, yeah, I think so.” He handed the cipher key to Dualas, along with another note.
One by one, they passed the notes around.
“Hmm,” Coryden muttered. “I don’t know, Morticai. These don’t make any sense.”
“See, that’s my problem,” Morticai complained. “There’s all this talk about voting, but who is voting, and what in Glawres’s name are they voting on?”
“You can’t even use these to prove Aldwin’s involvement,” Coryden said, tossing the last note back onto the bed. “He could claim they were discussing anything that required a vote by the nobility.”
“It would be easier to understand if they had not used so many misleading terms,” Dualas admitted. “No doubt, that was their intention, but we should be able to decipher some of it. Let me see.” He began to pace. “If we assume that your basic thoughts are correct, Morticai, and that Lord Aldwin, Lord Valdir, and Sir Ellenwood are Droken, then these notes could confirm that they are working together on this council, whichever one it is, and voting in concert. And if they were Droken, they would obviously not be working for the best interests of the kingdom. Mention is made of Dynolva …” Dualas stopped and stared hard at Morticai. He suddenly strode to the bed and seized one of the messages.
“That’s it! It refers to the meeting—“ Dualas pointed. “—here, as bimonthly. There is only one council which meets bimonthly—the trade council!” he said triumphantly.
“The what?” Coryden asked.
“The trade council?” Morticai echoed dismally. “All this time I thought it was something important.”
Dualas looked at them, surprised. “But, my friends, this is most important. And, I do believe, it’s beginning to make sense. Yes … Morticai,” Dualas suddenly demanded, “how much does a goblet of good Dynolvan wine cost?”
“A few ferdhyn,” he replied.
“Ah, that tells me you haven’t bought any recently.”
“Evidently not!” Coryden said. “Last week, the cost doubled from six to twelve.”
“Twelve ferdhyn!” Morticai protested. “That’s ridiculous!”
“Exactly,” Dualas said. “That increase is a direct result of the trade council’s new tariff imposed on Dynolvan wine.”
“How do you know that?” Morticai asked suspiciously.
“Well,” the knight admitted, “in truth, I would not know if Gunhar had not been complaining last week when I stopped by The Foaming Tankard. However, I know from what he said that most of the tavern owners in town are quite upset about it.”
“All right, so this means they’ve made the tavern owners angry,” Morticai said. “And that’s supposed to further the cause of Droka?”
“Somehow, it must,” Dualas replied thoughtfully. “Gunhar said Watchaven was retaliating because Dynolva had increased their tariff on goods shipped through our harbor. Why Dynolva would do such a thing, I do not know. However, I think it is unlikely our three Droken would be involved if it did not serve the Dark One.”
“So?” Coryden asked. “We’re back where Kirwin said we were—waiting to catch them wearing Droken robes.”
“If they were not of the nobility,” Dualas responded, “we could easily demand an investigation by the Faithful.”
“Well, maybe you can’t ask for an investigation now,” Morticai said, “but if I can get some solid evidence, the Faithful will investigate them, whether they’re nobles or not.”
“Didn’t you hear Kirwin?” Coryden said. “He was serious! If you get into trouble one more time, he will transfer you to Mid-Keep. Then, what would you do? You’d go insane! No taverns, no ladies—”
“No, I wouldn’t. I’d jump contract.”
“What? Morticai!”
“Oh, Coryden, I’m not serious!” Morticai shook his head. “But, I can’t just let this go.” A wicked grin crept onto his face. “I mean, do you want to spend the rest of your life paying twelve ferdhyn for Dynolvan wine? Besides, if I find enough evidence Kirwin can’t say a thing.”
Coryden shook his head. He knew that Morticai was pushing him, teasing him—but he also knew that there were times when Morticai’s stubbornness was simply unshakable.
“How do you propose we find this evidence?” Dualas’s question stunned Coryden. The knight was actually encouraging Morticai!
“Well,” Morticai said, “I’d start by following them, like before. The connections must go deeper. Maybe other council members are involved. Who is Aldwin getting his instructions from? He’s not making these decisions himself, is he? And I haven’t even had time to follow Ellenwood yet.”
“I suppose that would be a good place to begin,” Dualas agreed. “I could probably get us the names of the others who serve on the council. However, I suggest that you do not engage in more midnight investigations without us agreeing to it first.”
“Hey! What kind of a thief do you think I am? I put serious thought into this, y’know.”
“If you wish my assistance,” Dualas said, his voice dropping into a warning growl, “you’ll let me know what you are doing—more specifically, what you are doing that could get you, and us, into trouble. Do you agree or not?”
Morticai sighed. “All right, I agree.”
Coryden could remain silent no longer. “You’ve both gone crazy!” he cried. “This isn’t any small thing to be involved in, Morticai. You’ll be dead in a sennight if they discover what you’re …”
Dualas interrupted. “That is precisely why I am willing to help, Coryden. Morticai is already involved. And you are correct, this is not a small matter. I did not say I approved of the methods he has used so far. I would, however, rather assist him, to know where he is and what he is doing, than to allow him to disappear into the hands of the Droken.”
Coryden sighed. It was beginning to look like it would be a long Light Season.
* * *
The sound of Dualas’s footsteps marched with a steady rhythm, rebounding from the thick, stone walls with a deep, clear resonance. A thrumming intonation, rising and falling like the waves against the nearby cliffs, echoed faintly through the large structure. The long, arch-ceilinged corridor through which he walked contained many doors, but only the one at the end interested him. The armored knight standing before it nodded a greeting before he opened the heavy door.
Within, an ornate desk stood at the center of the large room. Rich tapestries covered the walls, their colors muted in comparison to the brilliant light that streamed through the two narrow windows behind the desk. A man sat at the desk, intent on a paper he held in the light from the window; other papers lay scattered across the desk and the floor near it. He was human, no more than forty years old. He had brown hair, worn short, that contained a frosting of gray at his temples. His facial features were delicate for a human’s, almost corryn in structure.
“Sir Dualas is here, your Blessedness,” the guarding knight announced.
The man looked up and smiled warmly. “Sir Dualas,” he said, rising and coming around the desk.
Dualas dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
“Your Blessedness.”
The Grand Patriarch made a gesture of blessing over Dualas’s head, then offered his hand for Dualas to rise. “What brings our faithful knight here from the Northmarch?”
“A serious matter, your Blessedness,” Dualas began. “A Northmarcher has discovered a cell of Droken … a cell that includes members of the nobility.”
“Ah? This, then, is a matter that will take some telling, and will involve some touch of Darkness.” He turned to the guarding knight, and said, “Sir Thorald, please send word to the steward to have refreshments brought to us.”
Turning back to Dualas, he said, “I have found that discussing such matters is best accomplished in the light.” He led Dualas to two comfortable chairs that sat near the fireplace and lay in the full splash of the sunlight from the window. “Have a seat, good knight, and tell me of this Northmarcher, and of what he has discovered.”
* * *
“… that is how the situation now stands,” Dualas finished.
The Grand Patriarch sipped from his second cup of tea. “You have done well to report this, Sir Dualas. This could be a very serious matter. I trust you do not doubt the authenticity of the information you have been given?”
“I have never known Morticai to lie about important matters.”
“Is he one of the Faithful?”
“He does not attend regular services, but I believe he is quite devout.”
“And why do you think thus?”
“He wears a medallion of Glawres, your Blessedness. He has always worn it openly. Further, our captain, Coryden Lestryon of Menelcar, has found him from time to time at Glawres’s beach. Morticai claimed he had gone there to think, but it seemed to Coryden that it was more than that. I have observed him for some time. I suspect he worships there, as Glawres’s earliest followers worshipped.”
“You understand that we cannot begin an official investigation on such unsubstantiated information.”
“Yes, your Blessedness. Is there not a way to begin an unofficial investigation?”
“Your friend seems to have already begun one.”
It was not what Dualas had hoped to hear. “I … see. Is there anything specific you would have me do?”
“Give the support you have offered. Lend your wisdom whenever possible. Lend your sword only if you must. You understand our position well enough to protect our interests. Report to me whenever you feel moved to, which I trust will be often.” The Patriarch rose, indicating that the audience was at an end.
Dualas stood up and said, “Thank you, your Blessedness.” Bowing deeply, he took his leave.
The Grand Patriarch allowed a slow count of ten for Dualas to make his way down the hall, and then he picked up the small silver bell from his desk and rang it.
The door opened. “Yes, your Blessedness?” the knight said.
“Send for my scribe, Sir Thorald. Tell him to bring his writing materials.”
When the acolyte arrived and stood before him, he said, “Take a letter, my son, and address it to the Head of Inquisition at Abbadyr.”
* * *
The yard of the Crestview Club was already crowded when the ornate coach pulled under the marquee. The owner of the coach emerged wearing a full cloak and Tradelenor style hat—large-brimmed and feathered. The man was in his mid-thirties and had a long nose, sharp features, dark brown eyes, and long, light-brown hair. His naturally curly hair would have been considered the height of current fashion in Tradelenor.
“Good evening, Lord Aldwin,” the doorman greeted.
“Good evening to you, Wyborn. Is anyone of note here this evening?”
“Usual customers, my Lord. Oh, a couple of merchants from Helgorn arrived a few hours ago, but no other foreigners. Should I watch for anyone in particular?”
“No, I am not expecting anyone,” Aldwin replied.
Aldwin made his way through the club, nodding at acquaintances. Several Watchaven merchants were engaged in an animated conversation in the main hall.
“Lord Aldwin!” one of the merchants called, rushing over to intercept him.
“Good evening, Master Ivar.”
“We heard you had just returned from Dynolva. Does this nonsense continue?”
“I am afraid so. The Dynolvans have pledged to continue their tariffs and are threatening to use Locguard and Bridlington as their main ports.”
“That’s insane! Have all the world’s corryn gone mad?”
“I certainly hope not. I have not spoken with any members of the other corryn kingdoms, however. If you will excuse me, I have an appointment elsewhere.”
“But, Lord, what will come of it?”
“I am not at liberty to say what the Council shall do next, Master. We shall soon have another meeting and consider the situation then. Good day.”
Aldwin smiled inwardly as the lively conversation continued behind him as he entered the private portion of the club—the Red Lion Pub. The Red Lion’s atmosphere was much quieter. Small groups of noblemen sat in the muted light of the lamps and conversed in low tones. An ornate door, with stained glass representing leaves, stood in the back wall. Lord Aldwin was hailed before he could reach it.
“Lord Aldwin!”
Aldwin turned at the voice of Lord Orrick. The chubby nobleman approached him.
“Aldwin, have you heard about Lord Quinson?” he asked.
“Quinson?” Aldwin asked innocently. “No, should I?”
“Oh, dear,” Orrick replied. “I feared that, as you have been out of town, you wouldn’t have heard. Quinson lost his son this last week in a terrible hunting accident!”
Aldwin was genuinely confused. He knew that Quinson would have to come up with some explanation for his son’s death—but a hunting accident?
“How?” he asked.
“Oh,” Orrick replied, waving his hand, “you know how impetuous that boy of his was. Quinson went on a hunt and took the boy with him, but told him to remain in camp. Apparently the boy wished so much to go on the hunt itself that he tried to follow his father on foot. Well, the bear found the boy long before the hunters found the bear. They said it was a terrible sight!”
“I imagine so,” Aldwin replied, wondering if Quinson had actually taken the boy’s remains with him to back up this story.
“Just terrible!” Orrick reiterated. “Well, I just knew that you would want to know,” he concluded.
“Indeed,” Aldwin replied. “Thank you.” And with a nod Aldwin took his leave and, this time, reached the door with the stained glass without further interruption.
A young woman with blonde hair and blue eyes met him just inside. Her rich, pale-pink gown was decorated with white lace edging and delicate bows. Aldwin repressed a smile—such colors were usually reserved for virgins. He knew, from personal experience, that the color was more than inappropriate.
“Why, good evening, Lord Aldwin,” she said. “I trust your trip to Dynolva was enjoyable?”
“As enjoyable as one could expect, I suppose,” he replied. “Is Cwena available?”
“For you, always. I believe she is in the garden room.”
He nodded thanks, and headed towards the mentioned location.
Cwena was expecting him. “My Lord,” she said as he sat down beside her. “Your trip went well?”
“It did,” he replied. He had never been comfortable in her presence. She looked to be in her early twenties, but he knew that appearance was as false as the greeter’s pretense of innocence. She was beautiful beyond comparison, with pale green eyes, copper-red hair, and an exquisite figure. She was lovely, sensuous—and deadly. He had never seen her kill, but he had watched other jevano feed. She reached a hand toward the lace cuff of his shirt. He stood up quickly, not permitting her to touch him.
“Shall we move on to business?” he offered.
She responded first with a pout, then with a pleased giggle. The wicked undernote of her laughter sent a chill down Aldwin’s spine.
“You are just no fun at all, my Lord,” she said as she stood up. “But if needs must …”
They retired to her room without further conversation. She sat on the bed, braiding her red hair, as Aldwin stepped into her dressing parlor. Removing his hat and cloak, he donned his Droken robe. Once properly attired, he touched a hidden trigger in the wall panel by Cwena’s chiffarobe and opened the secret door with practiced ease. Before him, a narrow hallway led leftward. The only light came from a stairwell about twenty feet away. Lord Aldwin knew the path well.
The stairs led down to a small room that lay far beneath the club. Two guards, who wore full-faced helmets and chain armor, rose from their chairs as he reached the bottom. Aldwin smiled, remembering the guide’s brags about the security precautions at the Dynolvan temple. They would do well to visit ours, he thought.
One of the guards approached him while the other maintained an easy fighting stance. Aldwin gave the sign of Droka; the guard nearest him returned it.
“The pass-phrase, Dyagon?” the guard asked, referencing Aldwin’s temple rank as was signified by the ornate embroidery on the hem of Aldwin’s robe.
“The harbor is empty.”
“Evening service will begin in an hour, Dyagon.” Without further conversation, the guard turned and led him through a door and into a short hallway. Aldwin could feel the eyes of the guards, who were concealed behind the arrow slits. He stood behind a stripe on the floor as the guard approached the door at the far end of the hall and whispered his own pass-phrase.
The door opened, and he was allowed into a larger room. The four guards who were here nodded in respect to his rank, but said nothing. His guide left him and walked back to his post.
From that point, escort was unnecessary. Aldwin exited through the door opposite the one he had entered, traveled down another short hall with arrow slits and finally arrived in front of another door. He opened it, glad to be leaving the gatehouse.
“Good evening, faithful Dyagon.” The man who greeted him wore the red robes of an acolyte. This room was very different from the previous ones—the floor was black marble, and tapestries depicting Droka’s battle with the Levani adorned the walls. The double doors on the opposite wall, intricately carved and leafed with gold, dominated the room.
“I am to have an audience with the High Priest before this evening’s service.”
“Please, proceed then,” the acolyte said, gesturing toward the gilt doors. “I would not hinder you with idle conversation, Dyagon,”
Aldwin nodded politely and made Droka’s sign before opening one of the large doors. Behind it, the temple bustled with hushed activity. The octagonal room spanned nearly fifty-five feet across. A fifteen-foot tall image of Droka, purported to be made of solid gold, stood against the back wall. Aldwin had long suspected the statue was merely gilt over some baser metal.
Bas-relief scenes of Droka’s triumphs covered the black stone walls. Inlaid gold defined the scenes further. An acolyte was lighting the gold candelabrums that stood like soldiers around the perimeter of the room. Aldwin frowned behind his mask. Three weeks earlier, the candelabrums were to have been cleaned of the old wax that had dripped down their sides, and still, the chore had not been attended to. Had these been Aldwin’s servants, they would have been soundly thrashed for such obvious inattentiveness.
In the center of the room stood an upraised granite platform, also octagonal and nearly fifteen feet across. Droka’s sign, graven into the platform, was filled with dried blood. Two heavy chains ending in shackles hung from the high ceiling. More shackles, these in the form of irons, were embedded in the platform itself. Currently, an acolyte was fastening the chains out of the way.
Aldwin watched as the acolyte finished his work. A small amount of mortar had crumbled from around the base of one of the ceiling anchors. Aldwin shook his head—it was sad to see his temple slowly sliding away from the high standard it had once held itself to. He made a mental note to bring up the issue when the Dyagons next held council.
His gaze drifted to two more acolytes, who also stood on the platform near a small table. The table contained torture implements, which they covered with a black cloth. At least the implements appeared to have been cleaned. Once they’d placed the cover, the acolytes moved the table to the opposite side of the temple and moved it into a closet behind a door made nearly invisible by the intricate bas-relief. No holy day had occurred recently—a traitor must have been caught. Aldwin wondered if it had been anyone he knew.
The acolytes ignored Aldwin as he crossed the room to another nearly hidden door. This one was not a closet, but led into the High Priest’s private section of the underground complex. It was a full priest, not a mere acolyte, who greeted him this time.
“Dyagon, His Eminence awaits you.” Without waiting for a reply, the priest turned, rapped lightly on the door, then opened and held it for Aldwin. The office they entered was spacious and richly appointed, as befitted the High Priest’s station. Corryn furniture from Lorredre, a crystal chandelier from Tradelenor, and carpets from Bracar decorated the room. Behind the desk sat the High Priest. His red robe was embroidered in black and gold. As with all Droken whom Aldwin had seen, his silk mask was in place. As they entered, he closed a large book that lay before him. Aldwin noted it was one of the Books of Prophesy.
“Sit down, Dyagon.”
Aldwin sat. “Thank you, Your Eminence.” The High Priest said nothing further until his attendant had left them.
“Your report, Lord Aldwin?”
Aldwin shifted uncomfortably. The High Priest’s habit of using his name in private had always unnerved him.
“Everything went as planned. The Dynolvan Council was furious with our proposal. They are threatening to use the Locguard-Bridlington route as an alternative to Watchaven.”
“Excellent. Did you give my message to Ambassador Volney?”
“Yes. He returned this.” Aldwin deposited a sealed letter on the desk. The High Priest opened it and read it silently.
“Very good, not only are things proceeding well, but they are proceeding on schedule.”
“Your Eminence, I … I must report one other small incident.”
The High Priest’s head tilted slightly. “Yes?”
“Someone broke into my estate while I was in Dynolva …”
The High Priest held up a gloved hand, interrupting him. “Perhaps you should remove your mask before you proceed, Lord Aldwin.”
Aldwin licked his lips. There was no way around the command. Knowing the High Priest knew your identity was one thing—withstanding his scrutiny, not knowing his identity, not seeing his reactions to your words … that was unsettling. Slowly, Aldwin slid the silk mask to the rear of his hood.
“Lower the hood.”
He did so.
“Now. Continue.”
“Someone broke in. My blacksmith was coming from the coach house and encountered the thief as he attempted to leave. They wrestled, but the thief escaped. The alarm was raised and chase given, but once in the city …”
“And you dared to come here?”
“I had—he couldn’t have discovered anything to connect me with the Droken,” Aldwin said, almost stammering. “I had my robes.”
The High Priest’s tone softened. “I see. Was much stolen?”
Aldwin looked down. “No,” he said softly.
“Did your servant describe this thief to you?”
“My blacksmith is human, Your Eminence, and it was difficult for him to see the thief in the darkness. He said the man was slender of form, but seemed of human height. Another servant who saw the man flee thought he was corryn.”
“Very well. You have increased the watch at your estate?”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“Then, we shall consider the incident closed for now, Lord Aldwin. You will be careful, I trust.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“You may leave. Service begins shortly.”
Aldwin took a deep breath and pulled his hood and mask into place.
The High Priest made Droka’s sign as Aldwin stood to leave. Aldwin returned it, and with relief, left for the comfortable anonymity he always found when surrounded by others at service.
* * *
Once Aldwin had gone, the High Priest turned toward the wall. He had to be there, had to have seen and heard. He could feel His presence, as he always did when either of the two Droken Princes was nearby.
As expected, the wall panel slowly opened. The corryn who emerged was anything but ordinary for his kind. He stood nearly seven feet tall. Even the exquisite silk Lorredre tunic could not hide his tremendous musculature. His silver hair was braided into a warrior’s knot, and although the prince was not dressed for battle, Ducledha—the Black Sword—hung at his side. His ice blue eyes demanded the High Priest’s attention. The High Priest resisted, ever so slightly, before being helplessly drawn to meet that deadly gaze.
“Have Aldwin followed. Determine who is following him.”
“Yes, Prince Luthekar,” the High Priest said. “It will be done.”