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“I suspectthismight have something to do with it,” Sgott said.
I glanced around and saw that he was holding what looked to be a piece of paper in an evidence bag. “What is it?”
“A warning. To you.”
I held out a hand, and he grimly gave it to me. The handwritten letter was short and sweet.Give us the Eye or she won’t be the first to die.
I frowned. “Why on earth would they demand the Eye and then kill the one person who could have used it for them?”
“Your aunt can use it, can she not?” Cynwrig asked. “The red knife might block her ability to hear wood song or to leave her property, but it would not inhibit psi talents.”
“Using the Eye is more than just a psi talent, though, and my aunt knows that. Besides, why would she want to help the very people responsible for maiming—and now killing—her daughter?”
“I think it likely Riayn blames you for that rather than her daughter’s less-than-optimal choice of employer,” Sgott said.
Given Vincentia had never been able to do any wrong in my aunt’s eyes, that was possible. “That doesn’t negate the stupidity of her murder—or why they’d still want the Eye when they can’t use it. Riayn is being watched, remember. They wouldn’t be able to access her without permission.”
“Maybe they intend to destroy it rather than use it,” Cynwrig said.
“That makes no sense. Not when it’s basically the only hope anyone has of finding the remaining Claw.”
“Have you any other relatives who could use the Eye?” he asked. “Someone who might be sympathetic to the Looisearch’s cause?”
“No one direct, but they’d have to kill both me and my aunt first before that even became a possibility.” I offered him the bagged note. “I don’t suppose you recognize the writing?”
He took the bag and carefully studied the note. “It could be Rosin Morrisa’s. He has the same sort of flourish when finishing words.”
“Is he in any way connected to Seryn Morrisa, Vincentia’s contact?”
“Husband.”
“Who has, of course, also disappeared, right alongside his wife.”
“Got it in one.” Cynwrig handed the note back to Sgott. “I’ll head back to the compound and reinterview their kin. One never knows, they might have something new to say.”
The compound in question was called Dorcha Dearg. It was the main Myrkálfar encampment in the area and situated on—and in—the Peckfort Ridges to the west of Deva. Though I’d never been 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 a viewing platform some distance away. Very few were given permission to enter the external buildings, and even fewer were allowed underground.
Someone who had somehow gotten inside—in more ways than one—was my grandmother. She’d not only regaled me with stories of how incredibly light and beautiful the underground areas were but had also extolled the benefits of having a dark elf lover. And she certainly hadn’t been wrong about that. Of course, whenever I’d mentioned that dark elves never allowed outsiders into their inner compound, she’d laughed, patted my knee, and said it depended on who you asked and how sneaky you were.
I suspected that no matter how prettily I asked the man sitting next to me or how sneaky I was, I would never get to see Dorcha Dearg’s inner light.
“Surely even their closest kin wouldn’t be that willing to risk prosecution—or your wrath—to protect them.”
“My wrath will never match the need for revenge, or the sympathy it engages.” He shrugged, a movement I felt across my shoulders more than saw. “Remember, we Myrkálfar have suffered more than most when it comes to the dark gates, as we are not only the gate monitors, but the only ones capable of closing them down after a breakthrough.”
But not capable of closing thempermanently. The fracture between our worlds seemed to prevent it, although no one was sure why.
It was why the Looisearch had gone after the Claws. The death of Morrisa’s daughter had been one death too many.
“This is the first time there’s been a concerted effort to do something about it though,” Sgott was saying.
Cynwrig glanced at him. “Yes, but we are not mages, and that means there has to be a greater power behind this plot.”
“Ah, the ever-mysterious puppet master who somehow sees all, knows all, but reveals fuck all about himself.” I wearily rubbed my forehead. It had been a long day and I was starting to get a headache. “It’s damnably frustrating not knowing even the slightest bit about him. Or her, as the case may be.”
“Every villain makes a mistake eventually,” Cynwrig said. “Especially when they’re getting desperate, as these people appear to be.”
“Not sure where you get that idea,” I grumbled. “Right now, from where I’m sitting, they seem to be at least a couple of steps ahead of us.”
