“Please, Pristoleph,” he said. “You’ll burn the place down. For the Mad God’s sake, please.”
Pristoleph took a deep breath and the flames died down a littleas if he’d drawn them into his lungs.
“Better,” Wenefir said, risking a smile. “Thank you.”
“I don’t suppose you can explain what happened while I was away,” the ransar said, his eyes losing some of their fire but none of their intensity.
Wenefir swallowed again and said, “You left Willem Korvan in charge. I”
“I left no one in charge, Seneschal,” Pristoleph interrupted. “Devorast trusted Korvan. That was his mistake. I trusted the Thayan, and that was mine. Tell me, Wenefir, my oldest friend, which was the greater mistake?”
“Perhaps neither,” Wenefir chanced.
A spark of yellow darted through Pristoleph’s eyes when he said, “The nerve of them.”
“It was a risk on their part, indeed,” Wenefir concurred. “But perhaps there was no real effort to undermine your authority.”
“Undermining Devorast undermines me,” said the ransar.
“As you have said, Ransar, but consider this,” Wenefir said. “Korvan, Kurtsson, and Aikiko were trying to help. Perhaps there was a difference of… vision, but”
“Damn it, Wenefir!” Pristoleph shouted, and all of the fires burst hotter and bigger to punctuate it before moderating once more. “There can be only one vision.”
Not fully understanding, Wenefir replied, “But surely you agree that Devorast could never have finished something so great on his own.”
Shaking his head, Pristoleph said, “Something so great can only be done by one man alone.”
Wenefir, his eyes narrow and his brow furrowed, shook his head.
“You don’t understand, do you?” the ransar asked.
Wenefir replied, “Not entirely, no, but I think I understand you, Pristoleph. After all this time, who but me could?”
“And?”
“And I hope that you will see that no harm was done to you while you were away.”
Pristoleph looked deep into Wenefir’s eyes, and the Cyricist’s knees shook.
“I have your loyalty, still, after all this time?” asked Pristoleph.
“You do,” Wenefir said, and it wasn’t entirely a lie.
“Then do this,” Pristoleph commanded, the fires rising when he squared his broad shoulders. “Send for the wemics, and have them place the Vaasan wizard Kurtsson, Senators Korvan and Aikiko, and the Thayan Marek Rymiit under arrest.”
“Under arrest?” Wenefir asked, stalling. Despite the dangerous heat in the chamber, the priest’s blood ran cold. “On what charge?”
“For Willem Korvan, the charge is murder,” Pristoleph said, and Wenefir almost gasped at the look of grief that came over his old friend. “He murdered the alchemist Surero in clear view of at least one witness. Beware, though, he is no longer human, but some sort of diseased undead.”
“And the others?”
“Treason.”
“But the Thayan-“
“What of him?” Pristoleph asked through clenched teeth. The fire on the top of his head blazed hot yellow and Wenefir had to blink and turn his face away.
“He is not, technically… legally speaking, one of your subjects, Ransar,” Wenefir explained. “He stands on Thayan soil when he is in his enclave, and I surely doubt that he’ll leave there until you” he paused and swallowed once more”forgive me, Ransar… cool down.”
“Thayan soil… ” Pristoleph sneered.
“Perhaps an investigation first,” Wenefir suggested, hoping to stall the ransar in any way possible. “If we have the proper evidence, an appeal can be made to the Thayan authorities. After all, Marek Rymiit is not without superiors of his own.”
“An investigation…” Pristoleph growled. He seemed to be biting his tongue. “Very well. But Willem Korvan is a murderer, and he became a citizen of the city-state of Innarlith when he became a senator. Find him and destroy him.”
Wenefir, caring not the slightest bit for the fate of Willem Korvan, bowed and got out of that room as fast as he could.
55
20 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR) The Sisterhood of Pastorals, Innarlith
The wall was high, but not impossible to climb. Willem looked up and saw the glow of the broken glass that had been mortared to the top of it, reflecting the wan light of the coming dawn. He dug his fingernailstalons, really, that had grown an inch in one nightinto the space between the smooth rocks. Moving slowly but with purpose, he scaled the wall. When the broken glass tore his trousers and bit into his legs, he didn’t care, and he didn’t bleed.
Willem dropped to the mud between two shrubs and kneeled in the darkness of the wall’s shadow. He moved his head from side to side, and though he didn’t actually draw any air into his lungshe no longer needed to do thathe was sure of the smell of her.
The name came to him once moreHalinabut it faded as quickly as it came, and there was only his quarry, his prey. There was only a goal he didn’t understand.
He crossed the manicured grounds, his chin up, his nose trolling the air for the scent. He found it again, and it was as though a finger formed in the air to point him in the right direction.
He followed the scent to a shorter stone wall, one more ornamental than the high wall that surrounded the place.
Willem didn’t know exactly where he was. He was on the grounds of some kind of building, and there was something about that building, about the ground itself, that repelled him as much as the scent attracted him.
He stepped over the little wall and found himself in a graveyard.
Maybe three dozen stones had been scattered, seemingly at random, on the cut grass. None more than three feet tall, they were simple and carved with names.
Willem sniffed the air again and stepped between the stones.
The sound of a voice drifted from far away, carried on the cool pre-dawn air. Willem looked in the direction he thought the voice had come from, but he saw nothing. Looking into the shadows he felt a sense of impending doom wash over him, so strong he almost fell to his knees.
He shook his head when the scent intruded on himif it even was a scent. It could have been more an impulsea need to find her.
Whatever the mechanism, Willem knew she was close, and he was certain that when he found her, she would make everything all right. She would save him. He didn’t know her name or how they knew each other. He could form no picture of her in his reeling, increasingly dull mind. But he knew her, and he knew she was
There.
Under the ground, buried.
He let a ragged growl tremble unvoiced in his throat, and he fell to his knees in front of a stone. His fingers found the engraving and traced the letters. He blinked but couldn’t see them, and though he wasn’t conscious of being able to read, he knew the letters came together to spell her name.
Halina.
“Who is that there?” a woman called out to him.
He jumped to his feet, his head spinning, and cast about for the source of the voice.
Though so much of what was left of him longed for it to be her, he knew it wasn’t Halina.
“By the Blessed” the woman shrieked.
