His amusement swum around me. “Is there any particular reason you ask that question?”
“Given the hawk shifter?—”
“Marlan Nash.”
“—said they were ratifying some decisions, I’d have thought they’d want more people there. They didn’t even have a quorum—or doesn’t that matter?”
“Only for major decisions, and having seen the agenda for today’s meeting last night, there was only routine issues to be dealt with. I dare say a good portion of the absenteeism was because they were attending Jarvil Maehdon’s funeral.”
“Who’s he when he’s home?”
“A long-term councilor and a dark elf of some importance.”
“Did you know him at all?”
“I didn’t like him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You never liked Cynwrig, but that hasn’t stopped the two of you working together.”
“Because we now have something—someone—in common,” he drawled. “Besides, while I might not have liked him in times past, I did always respect him. There is a difference.”
Meaning if I did want to know more about Jarvil, I’d have to ask Cynwrig. While their rules of grieving meant he couldn’t socially interact with anyone outside his own people during the set three-month period of mourning, I did have a means of talking to him without him risking a face-to-face meeting. But up until now I hadn’t had the courage or indeed a proper reason to use the Bruadar bracelet he’d gifted me.
Missing him wasnota proper reason, no matter how much my stupid hormones might attempt to convince me otherwise, especially when I had another lover in my life deserving attention.
“What time was the funeral?”
“Eleven, but it was being held at Dorcha Dearg, and there are formalities that must be followed before any outsiders can enter that place.”
Dorcha Dearg was the main Myrkálfar encampment in the area, and was situated on—and in—the Peckfort Ridges to the west of Deva. Though I’d never been there—and never would go there—I’d seen plenty of photos of the weighty but wondrously exotic buildings that ran the length of the ridge. It had become something of a tourist attraction over the centuries, although most folk were constrained to viewing platforms some distance away. And, of course, tourists also needed facilities like public conveniences, cafés, and souvenir shops, all of which the Myrkálfar ran and which, by all accounts, were making serious coin.
“I take it,” he continued, as he moved out of the building and turned toward Eastgate Street, “that you believe there is a connection between Jarvil’s death and today’s events?”
“The timing of it all just seems suspicious.”
“And the vision? Did that provide any gravitas to support said suspicion?”
“Under the bulky coat, I think he was wearing a suit. He was certainly wearing dress pants and shoes. Maybe we’re dealing with a fashion-conscious thief, but I think it worth looking at the funeral’s guest list and checking backgrounds.”
“You should have mentioned this to my father.”
“I wasn’t sure if I could mention the council connection. I mean, you’ve all sworn an oath not to discuss business with anyonenoton the council.”
“We have,” he drawled. “You haven’t.”
I sighed dramatically. “Then I am forced to admit it was my insane desire to get the hell out of his presence as soon as possible.”
“He does not hate you, Bethany, no matter what you think.”
“Hmm,” was all I said to that. We turned into Eastgate and headed down toward the tavern. I took a deeper breath that didn’t help ease the continuing ache in my head, then said, “You can put me down. I can walk the rest of the way.”
“You lie, Bethany Aodhán.”
“And you, Mathi Dhar-Val, have an exciting date with the latest prospect to get to. You don’t need to be babysitting me.”
“Pixie sitting would be a more apt description,” he mused. “But let’s be honest here, you have developed an alarming tendency of late of getting kidnapped, so it behooves me to ensure you get home safely.”
“No one has any reason to kidnap me right now. Besides, it’s not like you can’t find me when it happens. You did last time.”
