The captain studied her for a long time. She expected him to nod at the soldiers behind her again, and found herself tensing for the sudden jerk and sharp pain again, but instead he frowned and leaned back in his chair. “Have you seen Geran Hulmaster since his exile?”
Everybody knows that Geran attacked the Temple of the Wronged Prince, she thought swiftly. He must know that Geran’s looked out for me before. And it might make other things I’ve said ring more true if I show a little honesty now. Carefully, she nodded. “Yes. I saw him the day before the temple burned down.”
Edelmark raised an eyebrow. “So you consorted with an avowed enemy of the harmach?”
“It was no idea of mine,” Mirya replied. “He simply appeared at my storehouse-how, I couldn’t say-and he didn’t stay long. He was gone again within half an hour.”
“And you made no report of this to the Council Guard?”
Mirya scowled. “Geran saved my daughter and me from slavery at the hands of the Black Moon pirates. All of Hulburg knows the tale by now. No, I didn’t see fit to tell the Council Guard that I’d seen him.”
“What did you talk about?”
“He stopped by to see how I was getting along.”
“Did he say anything about his intentions?”
“He blamed Valdarsel for Harmach Grigor’s murder in Thentia. I guessed that he meant to do something about it. But I’d no idea that he’d attack the Cyricists as he did.”
“Do you know where he is, or what he might be planning next?”
Mirya shook her head. “Away from Hulburg by now, I would guess. As for what he intends to do now, I couldn’t say.”
Edelmark paused. He stood slowly, folding his hands behind his back, and paced away, evidently thinking over what she’d said. Mirya watched him, wondering if he was merely making a show of careful consideration or truly digesting the very little she’d actually told him. Absently he motioned to the guards behind her, and she squeezed her eyes shut in anticipation of the pain to come-but this time the guards unlocked her manacles, and freed her wrists. She frowned and rubbed at her bruises.
“I suspect that you haven’t been completely honest with me, Mistress Erstenwold,” the captain said. “However, I can’t easily prove it-at the moment. You may go, but I’ll send you with a warning. If you see or hear from Geran Hulmaster again, you will tell us
“Aye, I understand you,” she answered.
Edelmark looked to the soldiers behind her. “Show her out.” He picked up his helm from the table and left; the clerk followed after him, gathering his parchment. The soldiers behind Mirya came forward and helped her to her feet-somewhat less roughly this time-and quickly ushered her out of the council dungeons. Before she knew it, she was standing on the front steps of the Council Hall, still dressed in her nightclothes, blinking at the sunlight. The guards returned inside without a word, leaving her there.
“Now what was that all about?” she muttered aloud. If Marstel’s men suspected her enough to bring her in, they certainly had reason enough to jail her or hang her. But perhaps Edelmark’s suspicions were as thinly founded as he claimed, and he didn’t want to risk making a martyr of her for the rest of the loyalists to rally around. She shivered in the cold air, drew her robe around her, and hurried toward Erstenwold’s. The first thing she meant to do was to get properly dressed; fortunately she had several changes of clothes at the store and wouldn’t have to walk all the way back home in her stocking feet.
When she reached the store, she found that her clerks had opened without her, but it was a quiet day and nothing had needed her immediate attention. She stayed only long enough to send word to the Therndons that she needed a woodworker to have a look at her door, and then made her way back home.
As she’d thought, the front door was well and truly ruined; the harmach’s men had simply stood it up in the doorway, but it was no longer attached. She sighed and worked her way inside, pausing to take in the damage to her cottage. As she’d expected, it had been searched violently and thoroughly. Many of her best plates were broken on the kitchen floor, the cupboards were bare, the sheets and blankets were dumped on the floor … “What a mess,” she muttered. If she weren’t so angry about the senselessness of it, she would’ve thrown herself down in one of the chairs and cried.
She looked around, trying to determine the best place to start, but an envelope on top of her mantle caught her eye. Frowning, she went and took it down. It was addressed simply “Mirya” in a graceful, feminine hand. Somehow she doubted that the soldiers would have bothered to leave her a letter; they’d delivered their message by ransacking the house. Curious, she broke the plain wax seal and drew out a short note:
“Sennifyr,” Mirya breathed. She frowned at the note, wondering what to do. Once upon a time she would have answered such a summons without a moment’s hesitation; junior initiates in the Sisterhood of the Black Veil were expected to obey. But she’d parted ways with the Sisterhood years earlier, until the troubles plaguing Hulburg in the last few months had led her to seek Mistress Sennifyr’s counsel again. The First Sister was very well informed about events in Hulburg. Every devotee of Shar in the town-many of them women who were well-placed to see and hear many of the town’s secrets-owed Sennifyr fealty, and reported to her a myriad of rumors, gossip, and observations. Mirya no longer devoted herself to the goddess of secrets and sorrow, but that didn’t mean Sennifyr wouldn’t help her if it suited her purposes to do so. Of course, Sennifyr meant to draw her back into the Sisterhood’s orbit, so Mirya would have to be on her guard.
“What is it Sennifyr thinks I should know?” Mirya murmured to herself. She frowned, trying to decide whether to answer or not. Finally she sighed, drew a warm hooded cloak around her shoulders, and hurried back out into the cold. A quarter-hour’s walk brought her around the foot of Griffonwatch and then up Hill Street toward the houses of the wealthy that dotted the higher slopes of Easthead. The houses were grand old places with gated drives and manicured gardens, although those were brown and bare with winter.
She found the house she was looking for, a fine mansion that stood amid wind-swept cedars. Before she could reconsider, she let herself in the wrought-iron gate, climbed the stone steps to the door, and gave the pull chain for the bell a deliberate tug. Chimes echoed inside. After a short time, she heard light footsteps approaching, and a young woman with long dark hair opened the door-the same attendant who’d greeted Mirya the last time she had called on Sennifyr. “The mistress is expecting you,” she said. “This way, if you please.”
Mirya followed the young woman to the mansion’s parlor, where she found Sennifyr reading a book by the fire. Sennifyr was a woman of forty-five years or so, but her face possessed an almost ageless serenity, and no gray touched her light brown hair, piled high above her head in an elegant coiffure. Sennifyr smiled and set down her book, rising smoothly to her feet. “Ah, Mirya, how good of you to come! I was afraid that you might not see the note Lana left in your house amid all the dreadful mess she found there. Tell me, are you all right?”
“I’m well enough,” Mirya replied. At Sennifyr’s gesture, she took the other seat by the fire as the young woman-Lana, or so Mirya supposed-stepped forward to take her hood.
Sennifyr returned to her seat, but she leaned forward, peering at Mirya. “Oh, by the Lady,” the noblewoman said, her hand rising to her mouth. “Mirya, your face! Why, they’ve beaten you black-and-blue!” She made several small
“It’s not so bad as it looks,” Mirya replied. “A few hours’ rest and I’ll be right as rain.”
“You must have been terrified, my dear. Tell me, what happened?” Sennifyr nodded to Lana; the young woman rolled a small teacart close, and began to arrange the cups and saucers.
Mirya suspected that Sennifyr already knew quite well what had happened, but she answered anyway. “The Council Guard stormed my house and dragged me out in the middle of the night,” she said. “I spent the rest of the night and most of the morning in the Council Hall’s dungeons. Edelmark questioned me about loyalist attacks of late, but he decided he lacked any reason to keep me imprisoned and set me free.”
“Indeed,” the noblewoman breathed. “That seems rather … generous of him.”
“I was surprised too,” Mirya said. Sennifyr simply studied her without saying anything. Mirya frowned, wondering what it was that Sennifyr thought she’d missed. An ugly suspicion dawned in her mind. “You believe that
