Glascoed turned towards the man, his right hand balled into a fist at his side, his left tight around the scabbard of his sword.‘Have you words for me, Cilbran?’
The Count of Cilbran strode forward, his gauntlets catching the lantern light.‘At the first whisper of insurrection, your father would have ridden out—’
‘Aye, into woods not yet full of wraiths,’ the queen said.‘Calm yourself, Bryce, or be removed from this chamber.I will see no blood shed in this hall.’
A swarthy man in a suit of blue almost as deep as Fola’s dress and adorned with the orange ship she recognised from Forgard touched the Count of Cilbran on the arm and whispered in his ear.Glascoed took a deep breath and turned back to Owyn.‘I swear it, Your Highness.Before the year is out, I will bring the rebellion to its end.’
He bowed deeply, then took his place among the courtiers, as far away from Cilbran as he could manage.He still gripped the scabbard of his sword.
‘Ah, well… There is one last piece of the tale to be told, Your Highness.’Afondir gestured, and the three churchfolk stepped forward, led by the man in white robes.All bowed while Afondir introduced them.‘This is Anakriarch Torin, an inquisitor of the Mortal Church.With him are his subordinates, Sir Anwe of Tarebach and Sir Orn of Salus.We met them on the road, where they assisted in our pursuit of the rebels.’
As the count said their names, each of the churchfolk bowed: first the olive-complexioned man; then the woman knight, grey-haired and with half a dozen hairline scars crossing her tanned face; finally her companion, a copper-toned young man with wild, tangled braids.
‘They arrived by ship in Afondir some weeks ago and would lend their aid in scouring our land of the ghosts that claimed your father’s life.’
‘Two such offers in one day,’ Owyn said, with a wry smile in Fola’s direction.She dipped a slow curtsy and avoided meeting the gaze of Anakriarch Torin.‘We are blessed by a deluge of charity, it seems.Yet, though it will agitate my tutor, I feel I cannot so easily accept your help, Anakriarch.This is not, after all, the first time the Mortal Church has sought a foothold in our kingdom.Of late, I have come to better understand and respect my father’s… shall we say “discomfort” with your order.’
Fola hoped the relief that washed through her was not showing on her face.The anakriarch turned back to the prince, his head lowered—an effort to seem weak, small and subservient, Fola was sure.
‘With respect, Your Highness,’ he said.‘The Mortal Church seeks nothing but the uplift of all, and an end to the horrors of the First Folk’s legacy.Yes, we seek influence, and have sought it here before, but only to better guide the kingdoms of the world on a path out of the shadows of our predecessors and into the dawn of our fullest potential.’
‘This is no time or place for a sermon, Inquisitor,’ Medrith said, her voice as biting as acid.
‘Apologies, Your Majesty.I mean only to say that our interest here is to rid the world of this haunting, itself a lingering consequence of the First Folk’s meddling.If by our presence and service you come to see our Church in a better light, we will be grateful.’
Prince Owyn nodded.‘And does Templar Unwith’s army, encamped just beyond the river Afondra, also mean only to save us from our ghosts?’
Afondir stepped forward.‘Your Highness, if I may, they have already—’
‘Your vouching for them is noted, Afondir, as is your family’s history of alliance and affinity with their order.I do not begrudge it, as my father did not.Your dealings with foreign nations necessitate such relationships.’Owyn stood.‘Let your guests have lodgings within the castle, but their retinue must remain in your lands.That is final.And all I will hear today.Now that Afondir and Glascoed have arrived, my father can be buried.His funeral will commence tomorrow.There are final preparations that must be made.’
‘His Highness, the Crown Prince Owyn of Abal’s House!’the herald cried as the prince departed through a door at the back of the dais.A burly housecarl, his bulk a rival to Colm’s, followed, as did Jon Kenn after the scholar exchanged a few quick words with Anakriarch Torin.By that brief exchange, it was impossible to guess whether or not they had been previously acquainted.It didn’t matter.Fola had let herself hope that the haunting of Parwys might have deeper roots than a mere necromancer.That, perhaps, it was itself a product of some First Folk power, like the dread engines of Ulun.By studying such relics of the First Folk, it stood to reason that she might gain insight into how they themselves conceived of the soul, of death, and of undeath.A first step towards comprehension oftheirsouls, and the crafting of conjuring spells with enough semiotic precision and potency to compel their response.
She had hoped to find such a relic and such a starting point here.Just as likely, she would have poked around the kingdom for a fortnight until she found the rebel necromancer responsible and put an end to the haunting without learning anything even halfway useful.An echo of her wasted time in Ulun.
Not a waste, she reminded herself.None of this was a waste if she left the world better than she found it—even if she never won the respect she desired.Still, the danger here was more than she wanted to face.
‘Don’t make a scene,’ Fola whispered to Colm, her eyes never leaving the anakriarch and his knights, who now conversed with the Count of Afondir as the courtiers gradually dispersed.‘We linger a bit, then we leave.’
‘Giving up so easily?’said a husky woman’s voice.
Panic shot through Fola.With deliberate casualness—a loose angle to her head, a slouch in her shoulders—she turned to face the queen regent, who had stepped down from the dais and now leaned on her sprouting staff not half a dozen paces away.A quiet anger burned in Medrith’s face as she, too, stared at the anakriarch.
‘Pests,’ she muttered.Then, to Fola, with a beaming smile that did not touch her eyes, ‘We should speak, you and I.Woman to woman.Witch to witch.’ She tilted her head at the inquisitor.‘As that one will likely think as we depart together.Follow me to my solar.Leave your guard.’
She whisked away, the thump of her staff punctuating her steps.
‘Meet you at the inn?’Colm said.
Fola stroked Frog’s wing to quiet his trembling.A real flaw in the illusion, that.Tree branches—whether they grew from actual trees or from a woman’s arm—didn’t tremble without the wind.‘Get the horses ready.’
She followed the queen through another door, down a hallway made from the same red brick as the walls of the audience chamber, then up a spiral stair to the top of a rounded tower.A cascade of yellows, blues and greens shone through tall narrow windows into the queen’s solar.Earthenware pots that must have taken three men to haul up the stairway housed dozens of plants: herbs; ferns; a vine crawling up a trellis; even a small tree pruned to produce three plump fruits, each of a size with Fola’s fist and dotted with blood-red spines.There were bookcases sagging under the weight of countless tomes, shelves laden with specimen jars, and a locked, glass-faced cabinet that held dozens of carefully cut gemstones.
A desk stood beneath one of the windows—this one filled with glass tinting the light a bright green, like spring moss.On the desk were scattered bones, a number of pots and jars, a bowl of what Fola took for grass seed, a ewer of water, a mismatched assortment of teacups and a kettle.Medrith crossed to it, leaned her staff against the wall, and lowered herself to a chair, its grey padding dotted with yellow daisies.She gestured to the chair’s fellow—the same make, save the flower motif replaced with the black silhouettes of diving swallows.Fola lowered herself.Frog, eyeing the piled bones on the desk, hopped over to investigate—a mirror to Fola’s own curiosity, which was quickly outpacing the fear she had felt of the anakriarch.
‘Sit with me, Your Potency.’Medrith reached for the silver kettle.‘Will you take tea?’
Fola nodded.To speak, even to voice agreement, might divert the queen from her intended course.The decor and tools scattered around the room told a clear story to anyone even modestly well schooled in magic, particularly the traditions of this corner of the world.What that storymeant, and what the queen intended, remained two mysteries almost as compelling as the haunting itself.
