The men turned, catching sight of the worked metal that signified the rank of bishop, and as one, most of them bowed. “And also with you,” they chorused. This far south the Merum church held almost absolute sway. Only one or two of the patrons crammed into the space refused to bow, their faces stiff with refusal and nervousness.
Pellin pointed at the innkeeper hovering over Mark, a large-bellied bull of a man who had no idea how much danger he was in. “The boy is my servant.”
The man took two quick steps back, bumping into those behind him, and Pellin stepped toward Mark, tapping the emblem on his chest, hoping his apprentice understood. “Tell me what happened, lad.”
Mark bowed in a way that spoke of familiarity and long habit. “I saw this one”—he nudged the unconscious girl—“sneaking into the kitchen, moving like she didn’t want anyone to see her, and I think to myself, ‘She’s not up to anything good.’ When I follow her in, I see she’s stuffing food into her cloak like she’s trying to empty the place. That’s when I rapped her behind the ear, but not before she takes a swing at me with her dagger. Quick she was. I was on my way to tell you, Your Magnificence, but he stopped me.” He nodded toward the pot-bellied man.
“I don’t allow brawling in my inn,” the man said as he bobbed his head. “Not even among boys or women.”
Pellin pursed his lips as if thinking, fingering his medallion the whole time. “I need to question the girl. It may be that there is a story behind her thievery. If so, it may be that the church can provide some mercy.”
“Begging your pardon, Bishop, but why not just call the watch?”
Pellin forced himself to laugh, praying Mark had hit the girl hard enough to keep her unconscious for a few moments longer. “I hardly think we need to disturb them for a hungry little girl. Here.” He held out a silver half-crown. “This should cover your losses from this disturbance. Come, Mark. Allta. Disarm her. I’m old, and I’d rather do this sitting down, and I’m sure we’ll get more of the truth from her if she’s not surrounded by a crowd of onlookers. Bring her.”
Mark did a quick search, relieving the girl of a pair of very functional daggers. Allta lifted her so that she rested in the crook of his left arm, his right hand free and close to his sword. Pellin led them from the kitchen.
Chapter 3
The sound of tearing cloth filled the room as Allta ripped the bed covering into strips that Mark used to tie the dwimor to the chair. Her head lolled from side to side, and Pellin squinted against the uncomfortable sensation of having someone fade in and out of perception right in front of him. His head started to hurt.
When her head came up and her eyes opened, his gaze slid from her. If he’d been asked to count the people in the room, he never would have seen the girl. Mark, on the other hand, appeared to have no such trouble. The sounds of struggle and the chair rocking on the floor echoed in the room until Allta put his weight on the girl’s seat.
His guard put the blade of his dagger to what Pellin judged to be her throat, forcing her to stillness for a moment before he jerked the dagger away with the sound of air being displaced. A drop of bright red blood appeared in midair and fell to spatter against the floor.
Pellin drew in a breath. Only Allta’s physical gift had kept the assassin from killing herself. “Can you speak?” he asked. The effort of trying to bring her into focus made his eyes hurt.
Nothing. No sound came from her—not a word or sigh. He might have been talking to the chair for all the response he received.
Mark moved around until he stood in front of her chair, looking, Pellin supposed, into eyes that had been drained of all color. He turned to Pellin and shook his head. “I don’t think she’s going to talk, Eldest. It’s as if she doesn’t have the ability.”
Pellin nodded in resignation. “I had hoped it would be otherwise, but Cesla—we—did the same hundreds of years ago to keep the identity and the origins of the dwimor secret.” A weight descended upon him as he stripped off his gloves. “Very well, let’s see what’s in her mind. Bare her arm.”
He reached out, the motion stirring the air across his fingertips, until he made contact. Her skin felt human enough. No hint of the emptiness within her mind tainted the warmth her pulsing heart gave to her flesh, but the vision of her fading in and out of his visual perception stymied his gift. He tried to find her gaze, but he couldn’t hold those colorless orbs in his sight. Sighing, he closed his eyes.
Pellin rushed into the delve, his thoughts diminishing as he felt himself absorbed into the remnants of the woman’s personality. He stood in near absolute emptiness—still himself, still Pellin, Eldest of the Vigil, a man who’d lived for centuries. He turned in the emptiness, searching for the accustomed river of memory that should have taken a part of him at the first touch, the collection of a lifetime of experiences and emotions that defined each and every soul he’d ever delved, no matter how forsaken.
He found it finally—what was left of it, at any rate—a trickle down by his feet. He crouched to inspect it, hoping for some sign, though he knew better than to expect such hope. A thread drifted past him on the stream, dark as obsidian, but short, the recollection comprising it brief in duration. Beneath it, a vault of purest black lay, covered in the symbols of the forest. Another memory followed, also black and short-lived.
