Morticai's Luck (2 page)

Chapter Two

Lord Aldwin drew his cloak in tighter as the light mist threatened to turn to drizzle. The human nobleman glanced at the overcast night sky, scowled, and muttered to himself. “This cursed weather has followed me all the way from Watchaven.”

His corryn guide stopped before a wooden door.

“Here we are,” the guide whispered. He glanced up and down the short alley before unlocking the door. “We control every property attached to this one. This gives us a level of safety we’ve never had in Dynolva before.”

Aldwin checked his natural instinct to squint into the blackness beyond the doorway. His guide took a step inside, returned with a lantern, and then struggled to light it.

Lord Aldwin grimaced. “Hurry,” he said. “I shall be soaked before we continue!”

Once lit, the lantern revealed a long hallway, barely wide enough to accommodate them one at a time. As they walked along, Aldwin’s guide babbled on annoyingly, as though he were taking the nobleman on a tour and bragging about Dynolva’s most recently constructed monument.

“Now,” he said, “the walls of this hallway are actually the walls of the two properties which adjoin this one. The property records filed with the city’s leasehold department do not show this hall at all. Instead, the plans show the door I just opened for you as nothing more than a second door into the servants’ quarters of the building on the right.”

Aldwin’s interest increased. “They do not perform property inspections?”

“Not in this portion of the city,” his guide replied. “Too much money and influence here.” He laughed. “We corryn do not take lightly to having our dinner parties interrupted for such frivolous activities as having our bedrooms counted.”

They entered a small, open courtyard. Aldwin scowled at the guide’s inference that humans were weak for allowing such inspections, but he wisely kept to himself any comment he might have made. Although the courtyard was deserted, Aldwin knew that the odds were high that they were being spied upon.

His guide stopped before a second door that, once unlocked, led into a small room that contained a number of curtained booths. Nodding silently, the guide held back a curtain for Aldwin. The nod signaled the end of the idle chatter—they were on hallowed ground.

Aldwin removed his cloak and withdrew his Droken robe from the hidden pouch sewn into its back inside panel. He pulled the silk robe over his clothes and adjusted the masked hood. His guide was waiting for him when he reentered the small room.

“Shall we?” the now robed and masked guide whispered.

Aldwin nodded. The guide led him through another door and into the temple. It was smaller than the temple in Watchaven, but Aldwin had heard that the Droken in Dynolva had been repeatedly forced to move. He’d also observed that security for this temple was appallingly lax.

It was apparent from the austerity of the temple that the local Droken had lost much in the recent raids. The room was laid out in the traditional octagonal design, but the stone walls were completely bare, the candelabrums were of iron, and the altar that stood on the dais in the middle of the room was a hideous, wooden affair. Aldwin smiled smugly behind his silk mask. Although the commoners in Watchaven were required to allow their bedrooms to be counted by bureaucrats, the Watchaven Droken had, at least, been able to maintain a decent temple.

The temple was already half-filled. The varying heights of the congregation told Aldwin that about one fourth of the attendees were children. They were as silent as their parents, but that came as no surprise. Droken children were always perfectly behaved.

A door on the opposite side of the temple opened, and the red-robed high priest led in the procession. The soft drumbeat and the scent of incense stirred deep memories in Aldwin. He’d been a child when the Watchaven temple had ceased using drums in favor of a chant during the service.

The procession arrayed itself around the dais, and as the high priest stepped up to the altar, the drumbeat abruptly stopped. The priest began to speak. “Tonight we come into the presence of our most hallowed Master, Droka,” he said.

Aldwin sighed. He should have known that here, in the corryn City of Dynolva, the service would be conducted in the corryn language.

“We come with hearts laden with sadness,” the priest continued, “for there is one here among us who has sought to abandon the love of our Master.”

A soft gasp escaped the crowd of worshippers.

“Yea, it is so,” continued the priest. “But there is gladness, as well, for this one comes now to us penitent—and therefore choosing life over death.”

Two members escorted a robed Droken, his hands tied behind his back, up onto the dais.

“This is the offender!” the priest said as he swept back the offender’s mask and hood to reveal his face.

The murmuring among the congregation told Aldwin that few, if any, of the worshippers recognized the human. It was common to send such an offender to a sister congregation for sentencing or penance. It was the offender’s identity, however, which had brought Lord Aldwin to Dynolva.

“This is Lord Quinson of Watchaven,” the high priest proclaimed.

Aldwin noted that Quinson closed his eyes and visibly swallowed at the high priest’s utterance of his name.

Fool
, Aldwin thought.
He should have known that this would happen. Once admitted, no one leaves the Gathering.

The guards untied Quinson’s hands. After a moment’s pause, he knelt before the priest.

“Lord Quinson, what is thy sin?”

“I—I sought …” he gulped in a deep breath that was audible to the entire congregation. “I sought to forsake our Master,” he finished with a sob.

Fool
, Aldwin thought again.

“And doth thee repent?” asked the high priest.

“Y-yes,” Quinson replied.

“And doth thee choose life?”

“Yes!”

“Are there any here among us,” the high priest continued, gesturing broadly to the congregation, “who can vouch for this proclamation of faithfulness?”

“Yea, I shall,” Lord Aldwin replied, speaking in corryn, and raised his hand.

“And art thee in a position to report to our loyal Gathering, should Lord Quinson again betray Droka?”

Lord Quinson looked nervously at him, obviously wondering who it was behind the mask who could claim to report on him. Quinson also had to know now that at least one other member of Watchaven’s nobility was Droken, for only a nobleman could possibly vouch for his future actions.

“Absolutely,” Aldwin replied calmly.

Quinson averted his eyes and lowered his head in submission.

The priest nodded and turned back to Lord Quinson. “And doth thee know the penance for thy sin?”

Quinson’s head jerked up, and as he studied the high priest’s unyielding stance, his face filled with fear. Finally, Quinson broke down, and it took him several attempts before his proclaimed ‘Yes’ was understandable.

Aldwin was glad his mask hid the sneer of disgust that twisted his lips. For Quinson to act in such a way, especially before the commoners in the Gathering, was demeaning to the nobility.

The high priest gestured, and a human boy, about age ten, was brought to the dais. The boy was tied, blindfolded, and gagged. Aldwin had only met Quinson’s son once before. The child had grown much since then. It was a shame, in a way—but the price must be met.

The guards placed the boy onto the altar. Quinson began to shake from head to toe—Aldwin wondered if he would begin convulsing. He had seen it happen before. That incident had resulted in both the child and the penitent being sacrificed.

But the high priest began the first litany and, as the congregation joined in, Quinson’s shaking began to slow. The priest went straight from the first litany into the sacrificial chant, and although all the color had drained from Quinson’s face, he did not faint nor try to flee. At last, he began to sway ever so slightly in time with the chanting, and he even began to mumble the chant himself. That was the signal the high priest had been waiting for.

An acolyte brought forward the sacrificial dagger. He placed it in Quinson’s open hand, but Quinson did not close his fingers around it. Instead, he stared at it blankly.

Father of Darkness!
Aldwin thought. Has the man no pride in his station?

The high priest physically closed Quinson’s hand around the dagger and turned him to face the altar. He said something to Quinson that Aldwin could not hear, though it was undoubtedly some word of … encouragement. The chant continued and, as the priest joined back in, he began to increase the pace. Finally, Quinson squeezed his eyes shut and, raising the dagger high, he let out a scream and plunged it downward. The muffled cry of the child was barely audible over the chanting of the worshippers.

Now that the sacrifice had been made, all that remained to be done was the dissection of the child for the communion ceremony.

* * *

The northern gate to the City of Watchaven had been given to the Northmarch long ago. Over the years, the gate had been fortified and enlarged, and now the original gate was engulfed by the battlemented structure that had become Northgate, headquarters for the Northmarch in Watchaven. Morticai’s quarters lay at the top of the eastern side of the fortress, beyond the attic rooms filled with extra armor and weapons. A clutter of trunks, old furniture, and knife targets filled the bulk of the spacious room. Well-defined paths crisscrossed through the clutter, from doorway to window, and from fireplace to fireplace. Captain Coryden had always found it an easy room to pace in.

Coryden’s very name meant “half-corryn,” and his features were as mixed as his heritage—his deep amber eyes, upswept ears and arched brows bespoke his corryn blood, while his height, honey-colored hair, and unusually muscular physique pointed to his human heritage. As a half-corryn, he was something of a freak of nature—it was extremely rare for a half-breed to survive longer than a few days past birth. Once every few generations one did survive, but they were always barren. Never had a child been born to any half-corryn.

Coryden’s long hair was braided; his rich attire was perfect. His embroidered silk tunic was cut in the traditional corryn fashion, the delicate cut-outs along the hem and neckline a counterpoint to the velvet edging which lay beneath them. The ease with which his left hand swung around his court sword was all that betrayed his station as a captain in Watchaven’s Northmarch. It had been Morticai who had secured the invitation to the prestigious court party for which he’d dressed in his best style, but it was Morticai who had failed to join him, as planned, at the party. And so he had returned to Northgate, to pace in Morticai’s room, waiting impatiently for his wayward charge, as he had done so often before.

The door lock clicked a couple of hours short of dawn. Coryden prepared to deliver his long-considered monologue detailing just how he had spent his night awaiting Morticai’s return. When the door opened, instead of speaking, he just stared.

Standing in the doorway, Morticai leaned—or slumped—against the jamb and stared back. He clung to the doorframe for support. His black hair, finely but thoroughly streaked with silver, was wildly loose and tangled. His crumpled, filthy street clothes appeared to have been slept in, and he seemed shorter than usual, almost shrunken. His complexion, pale even by corryn standards, could now compete with some corpses Coryden had seen. His deep blue eyes looked pained, but it was the two blackened circles beneath those eyes that struck Coryden speechless. It had been a long time since he’d seen Morticai look so beaten.

Morticai spoke first. “Some son-of-a-bitch stole my clothes.”

“W-what?”

“My good clothes! What I was going to wear to the ball—the shirt with the imported Tradelenor lace, y’know?”

“Morticai, what the Darkness happened to you? Who did this? Did someone beat you up for your clothes?”

Morticai looked puzzled. “Oh. Uh, I’m sorry, Coryden. I guess I do look a little rough around the edges.”

“A
little!”

“I … uh, got into a bit of a scuffle at the tower and had to run. That was before I found out about my clothes. I hid them within sight of the palace! What’s the world coming to? That shirt cost me a month’s wages!”

Morticai stopped ranting and looked down. Coryden started towards him, expecting him to fall.

“I’m sorry,” Morticai said. “It took me … so long to get back. Gods, my head hurts.”

Coryden helped him into the room, and his concern deepened with every step. He wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed, but Morticai, stubborn as always, shook him off.

“Listen to me, Cor—I was right about Lord Aldwin! I’m positive he’s Droken. I found some coded papers. Better yet, I found the cipher key! I copied what I could.”

“Right … did anyone get a good look at you?”

“No, I don’t think so. Only one human actually saw me.” He decided not to mention the other human, the one who hadn’t lived through the experience. “Besides, it was dark. I just wish … things would stop spinning.”

“I was wondering if I should search for you. Judging by your appearance, maybe I should have.”