In Shade and Shadow

Chapter 6

At midmorning Rodian stepped from the city ministry hall overlooking the bay with two addresses in hand: one for Selwyn Midton's shop and the other for the man's home. He'd heard of charges filed against an illicit moneylender but never connected this to either deceased sage.

Once mounted upon Snowbird, Rodian turned eastward through thr city.

The inner business district was closest to the royal grounds. He passed one small bank with polished granite steps and a fine inn of massive size called the Russet Palace. Visiting merchants and even the wealthier ones of Calm Seatt often retained residency there for a whole season. He should've been relieved to have uncovered anything besides the guild itself to investigate, but instinct told him to focus on the contents of those missing folios.

And yet Duchess Reine had asked him to follow other leads.

He passed through the merchant district's fringe, filled with respectable and utilitarian shops for basic necessities. Then he slowed to carefully guide Snowbird through a bustling open-air market.

Why were the royals, the duchess included, protecting the sages and their project? He still remembered going before her inquest tribunal in the main hall of the greatest of the three castles. At first he hadn't cared for the arrangement.

The royals of old had established a rule for all citizens to be held accountable in like fashion. Legal proceedings were always held at the city's high court, prosecuted by the high advocate of the people. It wasn't proper for any royal family member to be given exception to the rule of law.

But later Rodian had also broken the law—twice.

Upon his first interview with Duchess Reine Faunier-Âreskynna, he noted how much she differed from those of the royal bloodline. Her brother and sister by marriage, Prince Leäfrich and Princess Âthelthryth, remained close at her side. Prince Leäfrich's displeasure over Rodian's questions was politely plain.

Unlike the duchess's chestnut hair, dark eyes, and small stature, all Âreskynna were tall with sandy hair and an aquamarine gaze. Their irises shone like a disturbingly still sea under a clear sky.

The duchess initially struck Rodian as a shattered woman. Only later did he come to know her as strong-willed, private, and protective of her new family. All she told him of the night's boat ride was that she'd turned to peer through the dark toward the distant docks. Being a Faunier and an inlander, she was accustomed to wide-open plains and lush woods, and had never learned to swim. Nor did she know anything of sailing. Getting so far from shore made her nervous.

When she turned back, Prince Freädherich, third in line to the throne, was gone. She hadn't even heard a splash.

Duchess Reine passed that night in panic and anguish over her vanished husband as she drifted alone until dawn in Beranlômr Bay. A spotty tale at best—perhaps too much so to be a lie—and more than this had left Rodian puzzled.

The royal family's belief that the duchess had no part in the prince's disappearance remained absolute. Later he began to share that belief, though he never came to fully understand why. It took time to uncover the few pieces he learned of Prince Freädherich and the Âreskynna as a whole.

From questioning dockhands, and any crew and ship out and about at the time, to finding those who knew scant bits of the prince's past, n.

On two previous occasions he'd been spotted too late slipping away in a small boat. The first time, in his youth, he'd made it to the open sea before anyone knew and was later caught by panicked Weardas upon a Malourné naval vessel. Then, a year before he married Reine, he returned alone along the shore, escorted by a trio of dwarven thänæ. His boat was later found adrift and undamaged.

And one night Rodian had listened to the sketchy rumors of an elder seafarer.

The old man spent his days selling his services for mending fishing nets. He said Prince Freädherich wasn't the only Âreskynna to exhibit such strange behavior. Others as far back as the king's great-grandmother were known for a silent and unexplained fascination with the sea.

The royals of Malourné were benevolent, and despite Rodian's ambition he took pride in serving them and his people. He'd heard occasional stories in taverns and common houses of the cursed monarchs of Malourné, but he gave them no credence. Folktales abounded in any country, and his faith in the Blessed Trinity of Sentience taught him better than to believe nonsense that defied reason. When his inquiries ran dry and nothing more concrete could be learned, faith was all he had left to lean on.

And he broke the law for the first time.

He should've gone straight to the high advocate, before the court, reported that his investigation was complete, and testified before the inquest tribunal. Instead he went to Duchess Reine.

Rodian told her he couldn't clear her of suspicion, but that he also believed she had nothing to do with whatever happened on the boat. Princess Âthelthryth was present, quiet and watchful, but open relief filled her aquamarine eyes. When he related tales of the Âreskynna and the sea, neither the princess nor the duchess said a word.

At the inquest's closing session, before the tribunal and high advocate, he reported that no evidence of a crime could be found. Not truly a lie, but then he'd said nothing about the "curse."

Unsubstantiated or not, withholding this was the second time Rodian broke the law. And the very act forced him to remember the day of his acceptance into the Shyldfälches, as well as his promotion to captain, when he'd stood before the high advocate with his sword hand upon an old wooden box.

Within that vessel was the Éa-bêch—Malourné's first book of the law. Over centuries, the rules and regulations of society had grown until they filled a small library. But the Éa-bêch was still the core of it all. Rodian swore by it to uphold the law of the people, for the people.

When Rodian left the inquest that final day, his sword hand ached.

Moral reasoning had told him no good could come from repeating rumors at the inquest. But truth meant everything to him, by both his faith and his duty. He went to temple that same night and prayed—not for forgiveness of the omission, but for relief from doubt in his reasoned decision.

"If he comes back, I wasn't hereig I wasne."

The old woman scoffed, but pocketed the coin as she shuffled on.

Rodian mounted and headed northwest. Strangely, Selwyn Midton's home was a good distance from his shop and the Graylands Empire. And he hadn't been to work in two days.

Eventually Rodian entered a residential sector where the main businesses consisted of food carts, eateries, or bread and vegetable stalls—all the things sought on a daily basis near homes. He was surrounded by small, modest houses, but all well kept, as if the inhabitants took pride in their neighborhood. The farther west he traveled, the larger the domiciles became, until he pulled up Snowbird before a two-story stone house crafted in the cottage style, with a wrought-iron fence across its front. He double-checked the address as he dismounted.

How could a Graylands Empire moneylender afford a home like this? Such parasites fared better than those they fed upon—but not this much better.

A young woman in a slightly stained apron came around the house's side carrying two large ceramic milk bottles. As she tried to shift both to one arm, Rodian pulled the gate open for her.

"Thank you, sir."

He waited until she placed the empties in her cart and moved on before he stepped through the gate.

"Snowbird, come," he called.

She followed him in, pressing her nose into his face. He steered her aside off the front walkway.

"Stay."

He closed the gate and approached the house.

A fine brass knocker hung upon a stout mahogany door. He grew more uncertain that this was the correct home—Selwyn Midton might have given the court a false address. He clacked the knocker, and moments later the door opened. He found himself facing the least attractive proper lady he'd ever seen.

Tall as himself, she was neither plump nor thin, but rather blockish from her neck to her hips. A two-finger-width nose hung over a mouth no more than a slash above her chin. Her skin was sallow, and her hair, once dark, was prematurely harsh gray. Even worse, some unfortunate lady's maid had tried to dress those tresses upon her head. The result was a mass of braids like coils of weather-bleached rope.

However, she wore a well-tailored velvet dress of chocolate brown. Small rubies dangled from her thumblike earlobes. And she peered at him through small, hard eyes.

Rodian realized that his revulsion had less to do with her appearance than the cold dispassion she emanated.

"Yes?" she said, and her hollow voice left him chilled.

"Matron Midton?"

"Yes."

He had the right house.

"Captain Rodian of the Shyldfälchiv he Shyles. I've come to speak with your husband."

"Why?"

He thought the mention of his division might melt her ice with a little concern, but she remained unimpressed.

"It's a matter of city business," he returned. "Is he at home?"

The simple annoyance on her face told him this woman knew nothing of her husband's court summons. She stepped back and grudgingly let him in.

The foyer was tastefully arranged with a thick, dark rug and a mahogany cloak stand. Squeals of laughter rolled down the hall as four children raced out of what appeared to be a sitting room—three girls and a small boy, all well dressed. They stopped, struck dumb at the sight of him.

Rodian remembered his cloak was open when one of the girls stared at his sword.

"Go back and finish your game," their mother said, shooing them down the hall, but she stopped at a closed door and knocked loudly. "Selwyn... a captain from the city guard to see you."

Barely a blink later the door jerked inward.

A handsome man holding a brandy snifter leaned out with wild eyes—not at all what Rodian expected. He'd met moneylenders before, and the ones at the bottom of society all tended to be small, spectacled, shifty, and wheezy.

Selwyn Midton was tall and slender, with peach-tinted skin and silky blond hair. He wore black breeches and a loose white shirt. He recovered himself quickly and smiled at his wife.

"Thank you, dear. Please come in, Captain. Has there been a neighborhood burglary?"

Rodian advanced, backed him into the study, and shut the door. Then a wide-eyed Selwyn Midton quickly turned on him.

"I have one more day!" he hissed in a low voice. "The advocate already checked that I'll make my court date. He doesn't need to threaten me again!"

His light brown eyes were bloodshot, and his breath reeked of brandy.

"Why have you been away from work for two days?" Rodian asked.

"Why have I...?" His eyes cleared slightly. "You went to my shop?"

Rodian gestured at the polished maple desk resting on an indigo Suman carpet. "Hardly a fitting place of business for someone who lives here."

Midton backed around his desk and settled in his damask chair.

"I've been preparing documents for my court appearance. What a shame that our legal system puts so much effort into persecuting me. All I do is provide much-needed service to people the banks won't even speak to."

"Service?" Rodian repeated.

"Who else, if not me, gives them enough coin to improve their lives?"

Rodian took a breath through his teeth. The only shame would be if this hypocrite were found innocent tomorrow, and that wasn't likely. There was no charter on record allowing the Plum Parchment to engage in moneylending. But regarding Rodian's visit, there was also no clear proof that Selwyn Midton had a hand in the death of two young sages.

Rodian realized he wanted Midton to be guilty of that crime as well.

It was possible that, to keep Jeremy silent, Midton had killed the young sage and his companion, and then taken the folio to make it look like a theft. Perhaps the break-in at Master Shilwise's scriptorium was unrelated. Stranger coincidences had happened. At the moment it even seemed more likely than Wynn's mention of a minor noble's son making threats.

Rodian wanted to solve these murders today, and sending this parasite to the gallows would be so much the better. But he checked himself. Such a course went against duty, let alone reason, and hence his faith.

"When you say 'preparing documents, " he began, "have you been waiting for a young sage named Jeremy Elänqui?"

Midton's mouth went slack. "I beg your pardon?"

"He was helping you alter your ledgers."

"If that boy's been telling lies, I'll raise charges on the guild!"

Rodian focused intently on Midton's face in this crucial moment. "Jeremy can't tell lies. He was murdered two nights ago."

Midton dropped the brandy snifter.

It hit the carpet and rolled under the desk, likely spreading brandy all over that expensive carpet. But Rodian sank—no, fell—into sudden disappointment.

Midton's bloodshot eyes widened in complete shock; then shock faded, replaced by fear.

"Dead? But that's not..." Midton began. "You cannot think... I had nothing to do with it!"

"Where were you the night before last?"

Midton breathed in harshly. He couldn't seem to get out a word until he jumped to his feet.

"I was here, at home. My wife, children, our cook, they can all verify I never left the house."

The cook's testimony would bear the most weight, more than a wife or child's. Then again, Selwyn Midton could've easily hired someone else to do the killing. In fact, that was far more likely, if such a special poison had been used. For what would this coin gouger know of handling dangerous concoctions?

And yet, how would he even know where to find the rare individual who did?

Rodian had questioned many who'd committed whatever crime was in question—and many who hadn't. Midton was certainly a criminal, but he'd been taken too unaware by the young sage's death.

"Don't ask my family to testify!" Midton rushed on. "I swear I had nothing to do with Jeremy's death. If a hint of this comes out I will be ruined, my wife, my family—"

"After tomorrow you will be ruined. Fines for illegal moneylending are high... if a fine is all the high advocate seeks from the judges. But fortunately for you, hearsay can't be used, and Jeremy won't be joining you for your court appointment."

Midton appeared to calm a bit, and leaned on his desk with both hands, pitching his voice low.

"I'll be exonerated, and no one here need know it ever occurred. My wife knows nothing of my business and... neither does her father."

Rodian blinked. "Your wife has never seen your shop?"

Midton shook his head rapidly. "She doesn't involve herself. Her family came out strongly against our marriage, but she wanted it. We bought this house with her dowry, but I've managed to give her a proper life. When her father passes she will inherit, unless she is disowned. Any whisper of my involvement in a murder investigation could..."

His jaw tightened as he dropped back into his chair.

"I had nothing to do with Jeremy's death," he repeated. "If you pursue me publicly, you will destroy my family for no reason... and no gain."

The man's background suddenly became clear. Midton had won the affections of a dour, plain-faced woman against her family's wishes—a family of means. He'd hung on by a thread ever since, faking a lifestyle barely affordable as he waited for his wife's inheritance.

Ruining this man might squash a parasite feeding on the desperate and poor. But ten more would scurry in like cockroaches to fill his place. And Rodian had no wish to destroy the four children playing in their sitting room.

"I require a written statement from your wife," he said, "that you were at home on the night in question. How much truth you tell her to explain the need is up to you. Have it ready for her to sign in the presence of my lieutenant when he comes tomorrow. I will speak with your cook and your business neighbors myself. Your current legal issues with the high advocate are your own problem."

Gut feelings or not, Midton still had a strong motive for murder—even stronger than Rodian initially realized. Hiding illegal moneylending, along with his scheme upon his wife's inheritance, was certainly motive enough. But Rodian's words washed anxiety from Midton's expression.

"Thank you," the man breathed.

"Call your cook," Rodian commanded. "I will speak to her alone."

Selwyn Midton hurried out the study door.

Rodian already knew the cook would tell him that the master of the house had been home. That left him with one more lead to pursue... and he did not wish to.

After a sparse lunch, Wynn shuffled through the guild's inner bailey. She stayed near the wall as she passed through the idt througsmall arboretum close to the southern tower. Beyond the wall she occasionally heard people come and go. But not many, as the Old Bailey Road wasn't a main thoroughfare.

When the castle's outer bailey wall had been opened long ago, a double-wide cobbled street had been kept clear, running along the outside of the inner bailey's wall. Only the backs of buildings across that road were visible from the keep. All those faced the other way, toward other shops across the next streets and roads. But if one stopped in a quiet garden or copse of the inner bailey, an occasional passerby could be heard beyond the wall.

"Get, you mutt! Stay out of my garbage!"

That angry voice interrupted Wynn's sulking, and she peered up the wall's height, greater than a footman's pike. Some cook in an eatery must have come out back and shooed off a stray dog. Wynn moved on through the remains of a garden.

The tomato bed was barren, its last harvest sun-dried for winter storage. Deflated by Premin Sykion's refusal to let her see the texts or her journals from the Farlands, Wynn contemplated what to do next.

"Why do they deny these crimes have anything to do with the translation work?"

Wynn pulled her cloak tighter as a late-autumn breeze sent aspen leaves raining down around her. She talked to herself too often these days.

High-Tower and Sykion hadn't made her life easy since her return, but they weren't fools. Even if they wouldn't accept what she suspected, that the killer might be an undead, surely they recognized that guild members carrying folios might be in danger.

Half a year of work had passed, and now someone or something was clearly desperate to see material recently touched upon. Whoever it was could read the Begaine syllabary; otherwise the folio pages would be worthless.

But how had anyone outside the guild learned enough about the folios' content to want to see them at all? Most of the guild, besides those involved in translations, knew even less than Wynn did of the content of those old texts. Unless...

...someone within the guild—at a high level—had already read something of importance.

But what could drive someone to kill for it?

She passed through the narrow space between the wall and the newer southeast dormitory building. Beyond it and the keep's wall was the old barracks and her own room.

Wynn shook her head at the notion that the murder might be someone within the guild. If a vampire was living among them, she should've spotted it long ago. Once, she'd been deceived by Chane, but looking back she remembered all the signs. He'd always visited at night, never ate, and drank only mint tea... his pale face... and his strange eyes, sometimes brown... sometimes almost clear.

Still, there were the moneylender and the young man who'd threatened Elias to consider.

No, the murderer had to be an undead, and one that killed without leaving any marks, and it had to be outside of the guild's population.

She rounded the east tower and peered along the keep's back at the near end of the new library. Every side of the keep but the front had an additional building added on. Only the spaces around the four towers, as well as the front side, were left open for gardens and other uses.

The two-story library, barely more than two-thirds the keep's height, was tall enough to view the surrounding city from its upper windows. Although its new stone was pleasant compared to the ancient castle's weathered granite, the library contained only the best selected volumes copied for use by the guild at large. Wynn had always been more drawn to the catacombs beneath the castle—the master archives.

She remembered the sight of Jeremy's and Elias's ashen skin and rigid, horrified expressions. They'd died quickly but in terror and agony.

Wynn turned about, heading back toward the keep's front.

Rodian had said that whoever took the folio from Master Shilwise's shop gained entrance and then had to break out. Wynn was sick of every new discovery making no sense.

How and why would a Noble Dead gain unnoticed entrance, and then not be able to slip away just the same? She rounded the southern tower, returning through autumn aspens and fallow gardens, and then heard someone walking outside along the Old Bailey Road.

The steps scraped and clicked, like a small or short-legged person hurrying to keep up with someone else. But she heard no one else.

Beyond the undead that Wynn had seen or learned of, she knew little about the Noble Dead. Called the Vneshené Zomrelé in native Belaskian—or upír, or even vampyr in Droevinkan—the term referred to an undead of the most potent nature. Unlike ghosts or animated corpses, they retained their full presence of self from life. They were aware of themselves and their own desires, able to learn and grow as individuals in their immortal existence.

And her peers would think her mad if she said such a thing out loud.

But all this was recorded in her journals. No doubt all involved in the translation project had read them.

As a girl she'd sometimes assisted Domin Tilswith with his research in Numan folklore and legend. She'd enjoyed her master's dabbling, up to a point. It often left her wondering why he'd become a cathologer, instead of joining the Order of Metaology, like il'Sänke. Tilswith's fascination would've been better served that way. She remembered the day he mentioned an old term—àrdadesbàrn.

It meant "dead's child" in one of the pre-Numanese dialects, the child of a living woman and a recently deceased man. She'd forgotten that bit of nonsense from her days as an apprentice, until later, when she had met Magiere.

"Ghosts and walking dead..." she muttered, "àrdadesbàrn and dhampirs..."

Wynn stepped out of the bailey's south grove, headed toward the wall's gateway across from the massive gatehouse.

If Domin Tilswith could find references to the àrdadesbàrn, what else might be waiting in the catacombs below the guild, unread and untouched for years? What vampire could enter a scriptorium covertly, have to leave it by force, and could feed without leaving a mark?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a skittering outside the bailey wall.

A memory rose sharply in Wynn's thoughts. She stumbled midstep and froze in place.

Crouched behind a water trough at night, in a small river town of Magiere's homeland, Wynn had seen everything before her permeated with the blue-white mist of Spirit. That first time she'd raised mantic sight by dabbling in magic, she'd watched a pale undead come up the main road through the town.

Vordana.

Grayed, emaciated flesh stretched over the bones of his face and hands, and filthy white hair hung in mats out the sides of his cowl. His white shirt-front beneath the soiled umber robe was stained dark by old blood.

And the mist of Spirit in all things seemed to drift toward Vordana.

Beneath his filmy white eyes and pallid skin, Wynn had seen no translucent blue-white mist. Only darkness, as if his whole form were a void that no light could penetrate. Those drifting trails of Spirit within all things were slowly swallowed into him.

Vordana had fixed upon Leesil.

Leesil buckled to his knees as his life began to drain away into that undead, though Vordana never even touched him.

Wynn snapped to her senses in the castle's inner bailey as a cold gust of wind pulled on her cloak and hood. The clicking outside the wall came and went, again and again, as if someone paced in agitation.

Like paws on stone, claws catching in the cobble.

Wynn stared up wide-eyed to the wall's top. She gasped in a breath and ran for the gateway.

"Chap!" she cried. "Are you there?"

The gates were open, and she raced out into the Old Bailey Road.

There was no one in sight, let alone a dog. She spun about, looking both ways, then ahead down the Old Procession Road. She raced down that main way, skidding into the intersection with Wall Shops Row.

"Chap!"

All around, people went about between the shops. Three finely dressed gentlemen stood talking before a poster board where the day's recent news was nailed up. A city guard atop a black horse leaned slightly aside as he checked in with two local constables. A dowdy woman in drab attire pushed through a small gathering to elbow her way into a confectionery.

A carriage midstreet came on a bit too fast.

Wynn quickly backpedaled before the paired horses ran her down. And her back thumped into someone tall and solid. That somem" lid. Theone grabbed her by the shoulders from behind.

"Are you all right, miss?"

She spun about, face-to-face with a tall, clean-shaven young man in a thick wool cap and coat. Through the coat's open front she saw a canvas workman's apron filled with the tools of his trade—a leather crafter. A young woman in a pleated bonnet peered around his side and frowned at Wynn.

Wynn looked about the street, filled with patrons out and about for a noon meal and errands. Something brushed harshly against her leg.

Wynn stumbled again as another clear memory filled her head.

Chap...

She saw through his eyes as he ran the dark streets of Venjètz, Leesil's birthplace, but this memory was much hazier than the last. Details of sights and sounds were missing or indistinct. But she could almost feel his rage as he and Leesil hunted... a vampire.

Suddenly the undead vanished from Chap's awareness. He'd been hunting on senses alone, and his quarry simply wasn't there anymore.

"Mama, did you see that?"

Wynn shivered as her head cleared.

The young woman in the bonnet sighed. She grabbed the arm of a little boy, who was dressed much like the tall young man. Blueberry stains encircled the boy's mouth, and the remains of a turnover were clutched in one hand. With the other hand the boy pointed down the road.

"It was bigger than me!" he said.

Wynn looked through the people along the street, her heart pounding.

"Miss?" said the young father. "Do you need help?"

Wynn stared blankly up at his worried frown. His wife now tried to get their other two children's sticky hands off the shopwindow. Wynn backed away from the family and peered through the busy street.

She saw no sign of silver gray fur or crystal blue canine eyes. No dogs at all, let alone the one she ached to see.

The young father shook his head and turned to help his wife with the children.

"Chap!" Wynn shouted again, her voice quickly weakening. "Chap... please... please come."

Wynn felt so suddenly alone on that busy street that she wanted to sink to her knees and weep. By the time she felt tears on her face, other people were looking at her in passing.

If anyone from the guild saw her now, they wouldn't need rumors and spiteful hearsay to think she'd gone well beyond witless. She backed away from hesitant glances and fled back toward the bailey wall's gate.

Why was this happening to her? Why did she hear claw clicks and then wallow in yet more disturbing memories? First of an undead who drew life force from a distance, and then of another event whhe ther evere a vampire seemed to vanish.

Was she going mad? Were High-Tower and Sykion and all the others right about her? Had all she been through in the Farlands driven her into obsession?

In her travels with Magiere, Leesil, and Chap, she'd encountered only one Noble Dead who could drain life without breaking skin—Vordana, also a sorcerer. To Wynn's best knowledge, his rise from death had been unique. Unlike a vampire, he wore a tiny urn that trapped his spirit and kept his corpse animate.

But Vordana had fed upon a defenseless river town merely by being present within it, draining life without touching anyone.

Wynn hurried through the gates and up the stone path.

She wasn't mad.

What she'd lived through in the Farlands was real. And now did some creature like Vordana hunt sages and whatever lay hidden within the texts? If she wasn't allowed to see those ancient works, there was still the wealth of the guild archives in the catacombs.

Wynn stopped before the gatehouse's tunnel, and late autumn's chill sank deep into her body. She turned and gazed back to the busy intersection a block beyond. Those memories, which had risen suddenly, lingered in her mind.

Even before anyone learned how sentient Chap was, what he was, he'd manipulated Magiere and Leesil with his memory play. It was also part of how he communicated with them—and Wynn. At least until a later manifestation of wild magic's taint began to let her hear his mental voice sent into her thoughts.

From anywhere within his line of sight, Chap could call up in someone any memory that he'd dipped at some time before. He could bring it back to their conscious awareness, and he used this to influence people when necessary.

In that second, hazier memory, Wynn had recalled the hunt as if looking through Chap's eyes. But that night Leesil, Magiere, and Chap had left her behind at an inn. Wynn stared along the bailey wall, wary of claw clicks on cobblestone.

One thing that Chap could never do was send one person's memories to another. He couldn't even send his own to her.

The second memory hadn't been one of Wynn's own, but one of his.

And that was impossible.

Outside the district nearest the sea, Rodian climbed off Snowbird before a beautiful stone mansion. From its uppermost floor one could look over the bay docks to the white-fringed waves rolling into the farther shore. He led his horse to the front walkway and whispered, "Stay."

Snowbird put her head into his back and snorted softly. It was well past noon, and she'd had no breakfast—neither had he.

"Last stop," he said, and walked up the triple steps.

He knocked at the ornate front doors framed on each side by triple columns, and a pretty maid with a lace cap answered shortly.

"Hello, Biddy," he said.

She smiled. "Good afternoon, Captain. The baron wasn't expecting you."

"I know... but is he or Master Jason about?"

She shook her head. "They've both gone to temple. The masons are coming to redo stonework on the west side."

Rodian sighed quietly. The last place he wanted to have this conversation was in the temple, but he couldn't put it off.

"Snowbird is out front, and we've had a busy morning. Could you have one of the stable hands find her a stall and bring her some oats and water? I'll walk from here."

"Of course," Biddy answered. "I'll take her myself."

Rodian was well-known at this house—as was Snowbird. He turned and whistled, and the white mare trotted over, empty stirrups bouncing at her sides.

"Go with her," he said, nodding toward Biddy.

Snowbird tossed her head once and blew warm air into his hand as the maid reached for her bridle. Girl and horse disappeared around the mansion's north side.

Rodian crossed the courtyard, out the tall iron gates, and headed up the street. He barely noticed the surroundings filled with fine townhouses and other mansions, and looked aside only once as he passed an eatery called the Sea Bounty. A bit pricey for a captain's stipend, but occasionally he'd succumbed to the establishment's fine cuisine.

Not much farther on he slowed before a large construction built from hexagonal and triangular granite blocks laced with faint blue flecks. Again, a trio of columns graced both sides of the landing before the large front doors.

Commissioned dwarven masons had built the temple generations past. Each one of its large wall stones fit so well that not a bit of mortar had been used to set them. Climbing roses had been carefully nurtured to twine about the triple columns' bases and ran in trellis hedges along both sides of the path from the street to the entrance. No sign identified this sanctuary, only those trios of columns—a simpler designation of the sacred teachings of this place.

Rodian climbed the three front steps of the temple for the Blessed Trinity of Sentience. Before he took hold of either door latch, voices rose from somewhere around the building's left side. Rounding the corner, he spotted a burly dwarf hefting a granite hexagon for inspection. Baron Âdweard Twynam and his son, Jason, leaned closer.

"Looks fine," the baron said. "I hope these new ones hold up better."

The dwarf huffed disdainfully. "Wind and water always get the best of stone... after many years."

As Rodian approached, the mason set down the stone with a thud that shuddered through the ground.

"Siweard," said the baron with a smile. "Good to see you."

Baron Âdweard Twynam wa onard Twys tall and thinned by age, with hair and beard neatly trimmed—both gone steel gray. His polished boots, blue tunic, and lamb's-wool cloak fit him perfectly, and his smile reached all the way to his eyes. His son stood in stark contrast.

Jason was barely a head taller than the dwarven mason, though solid for his size. His thick, dark hair curled to his shoulders, and his skin was dusky like his mother's. He rarely smiled, unless he found himself at an advantage of some kind. His near-black eyes shifted constantly, as if seeking any opportunity to take offense or make a challenge.

Rodian found Âdweard studying him with a serious face.

"What's wrong, my friend?"

"Is anyone else inside?" Rodian asked.

"No... except Minister Taultian and his two acolytes. We've no meetings or gatherings today. Jason and I just wanted to check on the work."

"Can we speak inside? Something unfortunate has happened."

"Of course." And the baron nodded at the mason. "You have things well in hand, Master Brim-Wright. Send the final bill to the sanctuary, and I'll make certain it's settled directly."

The dwarf nodded curtly and began to direct two men working with him.

The temple's backside faced toward the sea, and though set within the city's wealthy district, storms and salt-laden winds had eroded it as much as any other building. It had been a long while since repairs were needed, and Rodian couldn't spot any place in the wall that showed flaws. But better to replace stones before weathering turned to some more troubling imperfection.

Âdweard gestured to Jason and placed a hand on Rodian's shoulder. "Come. We'll go make tea. My old bones could do with a little extra heat."

The three rounded to the temple's front, passing between the paired triple columns and through the wide double doors. They stepped directly into the main sanctuary room.

Hardwood floors were polished weekly, as were the long tables stretching up both sides of the main chamber to the stagelike altar. But Rodian saw no sign of Minister Taultian or his acolytes. At the room's far end, upon the raised platform's central dais, stood three life-size figures carved from white marble.

A man wearing the clothes of a common laborer stood behind a woman with a book in her arms. Before the pair was a child with long hair, too young to ascertain its gender.

The Toiler, the Maker, and the Dreamer.

Swenen the Father—the Toiler—gathered what had passed and supplied the Mother's needs. Wyrthana the Mother—the Maker—tended and prepared for what was needed at present. Méatenge the Child—the Dreamer—imagined future days and what might be.

This trinity maintained past, present, and future for all sentient beings, and always would. The sages in their scholarly fervor read too much into what they uncovered. Their eager speculations led them astray. Life, as well as sentienrinll as sce, had always been—would always be—ever-growing and continuous from the first spark of sentience itself. There had been no "great war" that covered the world.

Such extreme interpretation of uncovered relics only created fear and interfered with the natural order. The very idea was offensive, as Toiler, Maker, and Dreamer would've never allowed anything so horrible to occur.

Before stepping fully into the sanctuary, all three men paused to whisper in unity.

"By the Toiler..." And they raised one hand, fingers up with palm turned sideways.

"By the Maker..." And they each closed that hand gently, as if grasping something from the empty air.

"And by the Dreamer..." And they pulled their closed hands, thumb side inward, to their foreheads.

"Bless all who turn this way with heart, mind, and eyes open."

Rodian led the way through the sanctuary. They passed around the dais and through a rear door into the minister's office with a small hearth.

It always remained open and accessible to the entire congregation. Furnished with simple chairs with somber-colored cushions, the room also contained a wide ash-wood desk and two smaller matching writing tables. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with carefully maintained volumes. They held the overview of knowledge and culture of the world, as well as the teachings of the faith.

Knowledge was sacred, and some of these texts contained records of the world's true history, and the manner in which awareness came into being.

Rodian realized he was growing hungry and thirsty. He set a half-full teakettle on a hook over the fire. No one had spoken since their prayer upon entry, and Jason folded his arms. Âdweard cocked his head, studying Rodian with concern.

"I've not seen you this troubled in a long while," he said. "And you missed the last service... as well as the social the night before."

Rodian breathed in twice, uncertain where to begin. This would be far different from questioning citizens at large. These two were more than friends—they were brethren. They shared his beliefs that higher thought and its moral processes were the prime virtue that raised humanity to its cultivated state. And knowledge belonged to those who possessed true ability and clarity to use it.

Other members of the order included nobles, politicians, men and women of the legal fields, and even a few prosperous merchants. New members had to be sponsored for a period of two years. Âdweard had sponsored Rodian, with the added advantage of becoming closely connected to elements of the city's elite.

But regardless of discomfort, truth mattered most, even if it meant interrogating two of his own. And if Jason had anything to do with the death of two misguided young sages, then that truth had to be exposed.

Rodian put tea leaves into three cups and poured the softly boiling water.

"I'm conducting an investigation for the sages' guild," he finally said.

Jason's brow wrinkled over a sneer, and even Âdweard couldn't quell the cinch of his brows. The congregation's members viewed the sages as indiscriminate when it came to their choice of initiates, much as they recognized that the guild had also done great good for the people. But they exposed weak-minded initiates to their inflated and imaginative interpretations of history.

"The sages—" Jason began, his voice low and venomous.

"Two journeyors are dead," Rodian cut in, watching him intently. "One was a young man named Elias."

Jason swallowed hard. "Dead? How?"

"Murdered, possibly by poisoning, in an alley near a scriptorium. Do you know a girl named Elvina?"

Rodian fired his final question before Jason responded to anything else. He watched the young man's eyes widen in silence. Jason dropped his arms, turning wary and frightened.

"What is this about?" Âdweard asked sharply.

For the first time Rodian regretted his position. "There is a claim that Jason made threats against Elias... because of this girl."

"Who?" Jason demanded. "Who said that?"

"Did you threaten him?"

"He shouldn't have even been speaking to her! A sage... not even that, just a journeyor still in—"

"Answer me!" Rodian ordered.

The steel gray of Âdweard's hair echoed suddenly in his hardening gaze, but his son still rambled angrily.

"Someone had to protect her name," Jason growled. "You of all people should know that."

"This is my duty," Rodian returned. "And I am trying to help you. Where were you the night before last?"

Âdweard stared in shock and then ran a hand over his face. "Of course, Siweard, as captain of the guard you must follow this through. Faith as well as duty demand it." He settled slowly into a chair. "Drink your tea. You look tired."

Tension faded as Rodian sat and took a long sip, the liquid's warmth flowing down his throat. He took another sip.

"Jason was with me that night—and Minister Taultian," Âdweard said. "As well as many others here in the temple. We first went to the Sea Bounty for an early supper, and then came here for a social to plan the next gathering. Later we went home."

"How late?"

"Near the mid of night, the fourth bell. Much later than old Taultian could stand. He retired earlier, once ceremonial considerations were in order."

Rodian settled back in his chair and couldn't stop a long exhale of relieved tension.

As with Selwyn Midton, Jason's alibi didn't exonerate him. He could've hired someone else to kill Elias. A father's witness would be suspect, but it was a start. Jason was accused of threatening a young sage, and crimes of passion weren't usually carried out by hired thugs.

"So," Âdweard said, "you now have my word, though you could certainly ask after others of the congregation."

Rodian nodded and waved off the suggestion. Jason was far from a paragon of the congregation, and too sly for his own good. But Rodian didn't believe the son of Baron Twynam capable of such cold-blooded brutality. A petty whelp and a bully, but rarely would that kind go as far as murder.

"I'll need written statements from you both," he said, "and one from Minister Taultian. That should be enough, if any further pursuit of Jason arises. If I can solve this soon, the statements will be filed away without undue attention."

Jason puffed a breath and turned aside, averting his indignant gaze.

"Thank you." Âdweard sighed. "Two young sages murdered. I cannot see why. What do you believe was the true motive?"

"A folio of scribed pages," Rodian answered. "Have you heard anything concerning a translation project at the guild?"

The baron frowned. "Whispers concerning some old find... but no more. The royal family has no idea how deluded these sages and their ideas can be. If not for their public schools and pragmatic services, I couldn't see why the king continues to fund them." He shook his head. "If this project is the cause of deaths, perhaps someone in power will put a stop to it."

Rodian blinked and stood up as his thoughts turned inward.

Perhaps the true motive wasn't acquiring the folios but destroying them? This hadn't occurred to him before. He'd considered only greed or desire for secret information.

Âdweard hadn't realized what he suggested and spoke only from an intellectual perspective. On second thought, Rodian considered the motive unlikely. Destroying the transcribed passages still left the originals and the sages' own notes intact at the guild.

"Can we take you to the Sea Bounty for a late lunch?" Âdweard suggested.

"Thank you, no," Rodian replied. "I have other duties at the barracks and should head back. Bring your statements to Lieutenant Garrogh before signing them." He paused and turned. "Jason... my apologies, but I am trying to protect you. Stay away from Elvina until all this is over. Remember that, or suffer for it."

For once Jason's sullen demeanor broke, and he nodded. "I was only thinking of Elvina's good name."

Rodian kept his response to himself—no, you were thinking of yourself—but he believed Jason innocent of murder.

"I'll see you both at the next service."

He stepped from the office, pausing long enough to pay homage at the altadive at thr, then left to find Snowbird. But Âdweard's words echoed in his head.

If this project is the cause of deaths, perhaps someone in power will put a stop to it.