She nodded. “I’m looking for information, Lieutenant. Your command has suffered fewer casualties than any other and not by a small amount. King Rymark wants to know why.”
Fess called her name and pointed around the camp. “Lady Deel, there’s almost no one here, yet there are enough cook fires burning to feed five times the men I see.”
She turned back to the officer. “Where are the rest of your men, Lieutenant?”
“I assure you all my men are accounted for. They’re sleeping.”
Fess touched her on the elbow before she could respond. “Look there.”
Her apprentice pointed to a tent in the middle of camp. At first, she noticed nothing odd about it other than its larger size, but the breeze that ruffled the other canvas tents around the compound seemed oddly muted. It was then that she noticed the color and the coating of mud.
“Why would . . .” she began, then noticed Fess nodding in appreciation.
“Clever,” he said, “but I doubt the lieutenant is the source of the inspiration. How long has it been since your men have seen daylight?”
“It varies,” he said, nervous.
Then she understood. “You keep them in perpetual dark so they can see at night.”
He nodded, but his expression still lacked the pride in the accomplishment she would have expected. “Our night vision isn’t as good as theirs, but you may tell the king that our outpost will hold.”
“Will it, Lieutenant?” she asked. “You’ve accomplished what no other outpost in the defense of the forest has, and yet you receive praises as if they were condemnations.”
He licked his lips. “Even we have suffered losses, Lady Deel. I must have reinforcements.”
She shook her head. “Have your superiors not sent them to you?”
Instead of answering, his gaze darted to the tent. “You have the authority,” he hissed. “You could order her back to the main camp. Tell her the king wants her to teach the other camps how to fight them.” His words spilled out of him in a rush, his tongue struggling to keep pace with his fear.
Her. A stab of premonition cut across Toria’s chest. “Shall I go talk to the soldiers in your tent?”
His head jerked. “No.”
“When will they come out?”
He fought to pull a breath. “Just before sunset. There’s a window of time at dusk we use to get them in position.”
Fess glanced at the sun. “Two hours, maybe a bit less.”
“Unless you have something more to tell me, Lieutenant, we’ll wait,” Toria said.
He swallowed. “She doesn’t like strangers.”
“Your point is taken,” she said, “but I’m not sure we are strangers. Please have one of your men tend our horses.”
Toria seated herself on a nearby bench and settled herself to wait, Fess standing guard over her and Wag lying at her feet. She closed her eyes and entered the construct in her mind—a copy of the vast library in Cynestol. As the weight of a thousand different memories manifested, a sigh ghosted from her, insubstantial because it wasn’t real. At the speed of quickest thought, she checked the doors, found them all secure, and then placed herself before the one she sought.
She opened it and memories spilled out.
“Go ahead,” Bronwyn said as she dabbed at her cheeks with a damp cloth in an effort to mitigate the heat of Cynestol’s summer. “The paverin sap will keep him calm.”
Toria reached, leaning to make contact so she could dart back if he woke, her fingers coming to rest on the man’s hand. She plunged down into his memories, the memories of a murderer. New to the gift, less than a year, she had just begun to fathom the depth of her ignorance. Colored strands raced past her in a rush as the condemned man’s memories ran their circuit.
She plunged beneath them, searching at Bronwyn’s instruction until she found it—a scroll, not black but gray—that had been leached of any hint of color. It was closed, tightly curled to protect its secrets. With a shudder of revulsion, a spasm that she felt in her stomach as well as her mind, she reached out to destroy the vault.
And stopped. That wasn’t her purpose. Swallowing her distaste, she examined it instead, searching for entrance or writing that would give her a clue as to its origin or purpose. After an indeterminate amount of time she gave up.
“What did you see?” Bronwyn asked her.
“A vault,” Toria said, “but it was gray and without writing. Why did you order me not to destroy it?”
Bronwyn’s eyebrows rose, a gesture of both questioning and displeasure. “That is not our purpose, Toria Deel. We fight the Darkwater and dispense justice where needed. That man is a murderer.”
She shook her head. “Surely not,” she said. “There was nothing of violence in his memories. Did I misread him?”
Bronwyn shook her head. “No. Had I delved him, I would have seen no more than you. There are two men before you. A second man is contained within that vault. Violent. Savage. A tavern full of patrons saw him stab another man to death—a man they say resembled his father.”
She swallowed. From the first day, the instruction of the Vigil had taken her to depths that frightened her, had taught her the fragility of the mind. “Would not destroying the vault restore this man?”
Bronwyn gazed at her, her green eyes placid. “A good question, but think on what you’ve learned, and ask again.”
She stared at the man, the silence growing until it loomed over her, a fourth person in the room. “It’s been tried, and more than once.” She met Bronwyn’s gaze. “That we have
