“It sounds like Edwin needs comforting,” Antonil said, spinning about and grabbing his friend by the shoulders. “Shame you weren’t able to catch me before I left the castle.”
Sergan swallowed, and his jaw clenched.
“Understood, sir,” he said.
In peace, and without escort, Antonil passed through the streets. He looked like any other guard, and earned himself hardly a second glance. Ears open, he listened to the conversations, the hushed whispers of the marketplace. All wondered the same thing. The Watcher was dead. What did that mean? A few were glad, and some blamed all the bloodshed on him, but most understood. Most remembered the chaos of Thren’s decade-long personal war.
Antonil passed through the western gates of the city, then hooked off the beaten path. It wasn’t often he went to the Eschaton mercenaries, only when he needed a matter dealt with quickly and quietly. But this was something he had to know. Rumors and questions would not suffice, nor would he entrust this knowledge to a messenger, either. Eyes downcast, he approached their tower along the edge of the King’s Forest. Pausing a moment before the door, he took a breath, then knocked.
“I am Sir Antonil, and I come to…” he hesitated a moment, “I come to speak with the Watcher.”
The door opened halfway, and Tarlak peered out from within.
“You alone?” the wizard asked.
“I am.”
“Good. Then come in.”
Antonil stepped into the well-furnished bottom floor of the tower. A fire burned low in their fireplace. Their blacksmith, Brug, sat beside it, a full mug of ale sitting ignored beside him as he stared into the fire. Both the priestess and the Watcher were gone.
“You must know why I am here,” Antonil said as the door shut behind him.
“I know,” Tarlak said as he headed toward the stairs. “Follow me.”
On the fifth floor, Tarlak opened the door, and they stepped into the sparse room of the Watcher. He lay on his bed, pale, eyes closed, a blanket pulled all the way up to his neck. His hood was off, and Antonil looked upon his face. He was a handsome man, and that made his sickly look all the more noticeable. Beside his bed sat Delysia, dark circles under her eyes. Blood covered her white robes.
“Try not to disturb him,” the priestess said. “He needs his sleep.”
“So he’s alive?” Antonil asked, trying to keep his relief in check.
“Barely,” Tarlak said, his voice low, per Delysia’s request. “We’ve been out the past few nights trying to find this Widow killer, at Alyssa Gemcroft’s expense. Last night, Haern got himself in a fight. With whom, I have no idea. Throw a dart into a crowd and odds are high you’ll hit someone who wants him dead.”
It took Antonil a moment to realize the wizard had given him the Watcher’s true name. Did that signify their trust, or how much he was truly worried for his friend? Of course, Antonil had already seen his face…did his name really matter? He looked to the wounded man, repeated the name in his head. Haern…a simple, earthy name. For some reason, he’d always imagined the Watcher coming from a line of kings or assassins. But carrying the name of poor farmers?
“How’d he survive?” Antonil asked. “Rumors are saying his killer watched him die.”
“Who?” Tarlak asked, his voice rising. His fingers twitched, and they sparked with fire. “Who do they say it was?”
“His name is Grayson. I know little more than that.”
Tarlak nodded, repeating the name as he looked down at Haern.
“If you pull down his covers, you’ll see burn marks around his middle finger. It was a ring I had Brug make for him. If he ever got in trouble, all he had to do was break the gem on top and I’d know where he was, sort of like a beacon. Found him hiding on a rooftop down in the southern district, bleeding like a stuck pig.”
“How bad are his wounds?”
“They would have been fatal,” Delysia said, slowly standing. She looked beyond exhausted. “Whoever this Grayson is, he was right to think him dead. He’d been stabbed through the side, pierced his lung so that it was filling up with blood. Something also hit the back of his head, and hard. If I hadn’t been there, if I’d shown up even a minute later…”
She fell silent, looked back to where Haern lay asleep. Tarlak hugged her, kissed her forehead.
“Sometimes it pays to have a priestess of Ashhur as a little sister,” he said, forcing a smile.
Delysia smiled back, then took her seat once more at his bedside. Tarlak took Antonil by the arm and led him from the room.
“How long until he’s better?” Antonil asked as the door shut behind them.
“Del’s been praying at his side every few hours,” Tarlak said. “She’s a miracle worker, but this is taxing her far more than I’d like. By the time we found him, I honestly thought Haern was dead. It’ll take two days, maybe three, before he’s a shadow of his former self.”
“That’s two to three days too long,” Antonil said as they returned to the bottom floor. “Everyone thinks this Grayson killed him. The truce between the guilds and the Trifect was already fraying. It is all but torn without him.”
“What do you want me to do?” Tarlak asked, his temper flaring. “Prop him up with some rope and dance him about the rooftops? He’s not leaving that bed. Announce to the city you’ve seen him, he’s alive and well, and that you expect everything to go on as normal.”
“They won’t believe me, and you know it.”
“Then get every soldier out into the streets, because tonight’s going to be anarchy!”
“Will you two shut your traps?” Brug called from over by the fire. “Making it hard for a man to enjoy his drink.”
Tarlak looked away, as if ashamed. Antonil frowned and felt the same.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I only fear for the people I must protect.”
“I understand,” Tarlak said. “Whatever peace of mind this gives you, just know we’ll be out there tonight, doing what we can. Just endure, and mitigate this. When Haern’s fine and well, he’ll come storming into the underworld like a demonspawn of the Abyss, making every one of them cowardly buggers regret celebrating the Watcher’s ‘death’.”
Antonil nodded, giving the wizard a half-smile.
“You’re a good man, Tarlak,” he said. “I’ll do what I can to make sure the King’s treasury pays you well.”
“Thought never crossed my mind,” Tarlak said, giving him a wink. “Good luck, and pray to Ashhur we escape this madness unscathed.”
Antonil bowed low, then stepped out. As the door shut behind him, he saw a strange woman sitting cross- legged just off the path. Her dress was plain, simple, but it looked poorly fitted, as if never worn by her before. She had olive skin and hair cut short. Two daggers twirled in her hands.
“Does he live?” she asked him.
Antonil’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword.
“Who?” he asked.
The woman stared at him, her head tilted to one side.
“Haern,” she said at last. “I’m a friend.”
Knowing his name had to mean something, Antonil decided, though he still kept his hand on the hilt.
“He’s alive but hurt,” he said. “I don’t know how long until he recovers.”
The woman nodded, stood. Her daggers slipped into her sash.
“I will try to quell the rumors,” she said. “But it will not matter. They want to believe he’s dead, even if for only a night. Blood will spill when the sun sets, Guard Captain. Do what you must to make it of the underworld, and not the innocent.”
Lazily she stood and began walking toward the city. Antonil waited, not wanting to be near her as he traveled. Something about her wasn’t quite right…
Shaking his head, he banished the thoughts and headed down the path, seeing no sign of her. Upon reaching the gates of Veldaren, he saluted the guards and denied their offer of an escort. Antonil was not yet ready to return to the castle. Instead, he hurried to Victor’s tavern, where he was allowed entrance with hardly a glance over.
