“I do so accept these terms,” said the knight, glittering eyes grave, “and I ask that the Deathmistress stay her hand, for the love she bears the brother who remains to her.”
Zelen perceived stillness. He thought it was consideration, but he could only dimly sense Letar now and was very far from knowing Her intent. Despite his devotion, he was glad of it. He only knew when the sense of impending power faded.
The Blade bowed their head. “She gives her assent. Speak, traitor. Buy your final mercy with the truth.”
The western wind blew through the tower, bringing with it the scent of rain and roses again. When it passed the silver bars on the sides, they rang like chimes, and the note went on for far longer than it should have.
Lycellias waited until it died, then, sword still held upright, he told the prisoner, “Begin with names.”
Lord Verengir wet his lips, opened his mouth, and spoke.
* * *
He mentioned a half-dozen names in all. It was more than Branwyn had expected, with her limited experience hunting human monsters, and fewer than she’d feared. She recognized most of them, though not well, from her stretch at court.
“Ranietz?” Lycellias asked at the end, the name unfamiliar to Branwyn until the knight clarified. “We know of your wife already, of course.”
“Then it’s no matter. She’s the only one of the bloodline left,” said Lord Verengir, but as Lycellias bent his attention on the old man and Branwyn, a cold wind blew past them. Verengir grimaced. “Her father served, though he was never particularly dedicated. His wife didn’t, but she died before that could be a complication, as did her other…issue.”
There was a nasty story there. Branwyn could guess most of the details, whether Zelen’s mother had been old enough to take part or not. Zelen himself, she observed, was taking all of the information in with a complete lack of expression and a straight back that would’ve done credit to most of the soldiers she’d encountered.
Lycellias nodded. “And those are all of Gizath’s servants that you know?”
“All I know. There are far, far more. You know that.” The old man’s thin, wormy lips turned up at the corners. “You all know that.”
“Our knowledge is not your concern,” said Lycellias. “What of enchantments?”
“None exist now,” said Lord Verengir, and sighed. “Hanyi and Gedomir were competent enough for temporary matters, but those with the truly intricate skills perished years ago. Roslina was weaker, or less pure, than we anticipated. A pity.” He did look truly sorrowful, though Branwyn wouldn’t have laid odds on it being out of human caring rather than regret over lost resources.
“Yes,” said Lycellias, tilting his head slightly. “How was it that she and the babe perished?”
“She burned. Her and those around her. From inside.” Branwyn, who’d seen Gizath’s fire at work, shuddered. The wind blew past her again, ice edged and implacable. Verengir’s face twisted in effort, but his mouth opened again, and he said, in a voice not entirely his own, “But the boy lived.”
“What?” Branwyn and Yathana spoke at once.
“Explain,” Lycellias commanded.
“The boy survived. Alive, in a heap of ashes. There was great potential there.”
“Where is he?” the knight asked.
Verengir laughed, dry and thin. “We’ve been trying to discover that for years.” He didn’t try to resist this time. “It was before we’d learned to ensure the servants’ loyalty. We assumed them schooled enough in the proper order not to interfere. The child thrived. Alize and Hanyi tended him, as was proper. Then our manservant vanished, and the boy with him.” The old man hissed at the memory. “We found the man and dealt with him, but he never said what became of the babe.”
Branwyn silently made the sign of the Four for the butler. However long it had taken the man to see the truth, he’d done well at the end, and died for it—likely in torment. She saw Zelen gulp and Lycellias’s sharp-angled features grow harder.
“And you seek him still?” the knight asked.
“Of course. If he can be…taught…he’s valuable. If not, his death will release the crucial element to go elsewhere. Now, likely, it’ll be into the nearest biddable host, not one trained and prepared as we would have done.” Verengir shook his head. “Thyran was always a hasty idiot. I’ll never know why my great-uncle told him as much as he did, but…”
Lycellias raised his hand. “We have no more need of your speech, nor of you,” he said. The other two knights stepped forward, each taking the man by one shoulder. “Go now, and reflect, if you will, on what you’ve done in this world.”
He might. One never knew. But Branwyn didn’t have much hope. From Lycellias’s tone, she doubted that the knight did either.
Chapter 43
The council delivered their decision a week after Lord Verengir confessed, after the executioners had done their duty and the bodies had been distributed in pieces to the four quarters of Heliodar, after an entire flock of rumors had flown about the city.
Branwyn stood in the chamber where she’d come on her first day, wearing the same blue wool gown she’d worn then, and the same bronze-and-opal torc around her neck. She bore Yathana openly at her waist now, though, and the council didn’t treat her as if she was a new problem or a foreign curiosity. A few regarded her with admiration. Others looked at her like an omen of doom: the Skull card in a fortune-teller’s deck, the black dog at the crossroads.
