The Consuls of the Vicariate (3 page)
“Surely one of you can write.”
Shaking his head, Laedron glanced at his knights. “We can write, but it’s far too dangerous for us. I killed Gustav Drakar, if you have forgotten, and few left the cathedral without seeing my face. Also, any number of people could have witnessed Marac and Brice running from the guard the previous night.”
“Then we would require someone the church couldn’t possibly recognize.” Jurgen fixed his stare on Valyrie. “Or a person they wouldn’t deem to be a threat.”
During the conversation, Valyrie had done little beyond staring at the table, but she glanced up when the room grew quiet, seeming to feel the eyes falling upon her. “Who? Me? No, I can’t.”
“Can’t you?” Jurgen leaned toward her. “I’ve known you and your father for quite some time, and I find it hard to believe that you would be unable.”
“I can’t,” she repeated.
“We cannot ask this of her, not at a time like this. She just lost her father,” Laedron said, patting her arm. “There must be another way.”
“That’s not the reason.” She rubbed her eyes. “I must send word to my uncle; the inn will need a caretaker. I’ll have to watch over it until he can send someone.”
“If you prepare a letter, one of my men will carry it to him directly,” Piers offered. “I swear it.”
“That still leaves the inn empty. It could be a week before my uncle receives notice, then another before he could arrive.”
“If you want, my men can secure the inn and post guard until he comes.”
Nodding, she crossed her arms. “I’ll need to make funeral arrangements, too. He always said he wanted to be placed in the Sea of Pillars so he could rest near Azura’s heart.”
Jurgen removed his spectacles and rubbed his nose. “Out of the question. The Arcanists wouldn’t allow it.”
“What do they have to do it with?” Laedron asked.
“They keep the secret knowledge of navigating the Sea of Pillars, but they are also responsible for the sea itself, keeping the water sacred and holy. No common man’s remains may be spread there. Such an act would be likened to throwing paint on a temple.”
“Perhaps we can come to a compromise.” Laedron tapped his chin. “If I reduced his remains to dust, we could spread them along the banks of the sea. Would that be in keeping with his wishes, Val?”
“Azura teaches that our bodies return to the cycle after the soul has departed.” She paused. “Yes, I think he would have liked that.”
“You’ll serve in the capacity of a clerk, then?” Jurgen asked.
“Yes, I’ll do it. For the memory of my father. In exchange, you will serve him one last time by committing him to the sea with Azura’s blessing.”
“Of course. It’s settled, then. I’ll make arrangements for housing somewhere near the Vicariate. Valyrie and I shall need a separate place to reside for our task.”
Laedron raised an eyebrow. “You won’t stay here?”
“It wouldn’t be wise to remain here. If anyone followed me, they would locate the order’s secret headquarters, and our mission would be jeopardized.”
“Very well,” Laedron said, despite wanting to be near Valyrie. “You’re right.”
Valyrie stood. “I want to see my father one last time. Where is he being kept?”
“Downstairs in the private chapel.” Piers gestured toward the hall. “Caleb will show you there.”
Laedron watched Caleb close the door behind them. “She’s lost so much.”
“It is unfortunate, and if I could do anything to change the past, I would.” Piers folded his hands in his lap. “All I can do now is offer to help her in any way I can.”
Brice nodded. “What is this place? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Laedron turned to him. “We haven’t heard a peep out of you until now.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he replied. “I didn’t want to upset her any more than she already was.”
“It’s a good thing you didn’t talk, then,” Marac said.
Brice smirked. “Really, what is this place?”
“An abandoned church. Our order once occupied a place of honor in the city, but when the schism happened, we were cast out from our fortress,” Piers explained. “To remain in the city, we needed an unassuming base of operations, and we found one in this church.”
“Schism?” Brice asked.
“When the order separated itself from the church, the situation degraded quickly, and the militia confronted us openly in the streets. That’s where I got this scar.” Piers pointed at his face. “We took what money we had and bought this building under an alias.”
Caleb returned, and Laedron glanced his way before looking at Piers again. “No one knows you’re here?”
“No one outside the order, for our own safety. If the church were to find out, especially now, they would imprison us—or worse. As a result, we’ve become experts at keeping ourselves hidden over the years.”
“You’ve never been tempted to leave?” Laedron took a drink from a tray Caleb offered. “I would hate having to hide all the time.”
“It’s crossed our minds, especially when the war began. We came to a decision to remain here, though. What better place to be than under the enemy’s nose?” Piers let out a chuckle. “Any work we do for the order here is more important than any we could do elsewhere.”
Laedron nodded. “I can’t argue with you there.”
Piers put his elbows on the table. “So, have you thought about what you will do while Jurgen is away?”
“Away? It’s not as if he’s going to some distant city.”
“Yes, but his task could take some time. In the meantime, we could accomplish a great deal with a sorcerer’s aid.”
“What sort of thing did you have in mind?”
Smiling, Piers leaned back in his chair. “Tomorrow, after Valyrie’s father is laid to rest. We’ll talk then.”
“All right.” Laedron stood. “I’m going to check on her and perform the transformation.”
“Caleb, will you see our new friend to the chapel?” Piers gestured toward the door and received a nod from Caleb.
Laedron made a quick stop by his room to get the appropriate spellbook, then Caleb led him to the bowels of the church. When they stopped at the chapel door, Laedron said, “Sorry about that earlier.”
Opening the door, Caleb remained silent, then closed it when Laedron passed through.
I feel bad for punching him, but he really deserved it
, he mused.
Perhaps he’ll find a way to forgive me someday.
Valyrie stood beside an oaken crate. Laedron could only see her back, but he heard her quiet whimpering. The sound of her crying slammed him into a wall of sorrow, but he could do nothing to ease her suffering beyond handling the transformation and the ceremony with care and respect.
“I never knew it would be like this.” She dragged her sleeve across her nose. “The few times I thought about losing him, I assumed we’d have plenty of time to resolve our differences.”
Taking a deep breath, Laedron stepped closer. “Sometimes things don’t turn out the way we want. Regardless of how I may feel, the Fates have never asked me about my wishes.”
When she turned around, he could see the pain in her eyes, the whites blistered red from her tears and anguish. Instinctively, he averted his eyes, both to ease his own suffering and so she wouldn’t feel as though he were gawking at her pain. The recollection of Ismerelda’s death rushed through his mind, the images flashing like a collage hastily painted in blood.
“You seem as if you feel sadness at my father’s passing, but you never knew him.”
“I only sympathize with you,” he replied. “Seeing you now takes me back to the death of my teacher and how I felt, though it seems long ago.”
She turned to the improvised coffin. “Yet you’ve come to this city despite the dangers.”
“I carried on in her memory.” He joined her next to the crate. “At first, I sought vengeance against the one who killed her, but now, I see we must go beyond that. To end the war and prevent countless others from dying over a lie, that is a cause worth fighting for.”
She nodded. “My father would’ve liked you, I think.”
“Why?”
“It’s not because he would have agreed with you; that’s for sure. No, I think he might have enjoyed the debate.”
“He would’ve disagreed with what I’ve said?”
Looking at her father’s face, she formed a smile beneath her tears. “I don’t think so, but he wouldn’t have let you know that. He was the type to argue the unpopular end of any disagreement.”
“What about you?” He met her gaze when she turned. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath and stared into the coffin. “Goodnight, Father. See you in the morning.” She held her hair back, leaned over, and kissed Pembry’s forehead.
“Take care of him,” she said, turning and walking to the door. “You know, it doesn’t seem real. I keep telling myself that he’ll come back, that he’ll come through the door and give me a big hug, but he won’t—he can’t. Take care of my da, Lae.”
Once Valyrie was gone, Laedron gazed into the wooden box and sighed.
How many more innocents will lie dead by the time we’re done?
Far too many.
He walked to the dilapidated stone altar, placed his tome upon it, and flipped through the pages. Thankfully, he’d become so skilled at reading Zyvdredi texts that he no longer needed the book Mathias had given him. Though he still had trouble with a few of the less common words, he could derive their meanings without the need of a manual.
He held his scepter above the crate and chanted slowly. Black wisps dripped from the ruby at the tip of the rod down to Pembry’s body. The wisps danced and coiled freely through the air like ink dropped into a pool of water. He held it until only ashes remained. He gathered Pembry’s ashes into a bronze urn, then moved the crate to the floor. He carefully placed the urn at the center of the stone slab where the coffin had been and took his spell book from the altar. After one last glance at the urn, he returned upstairs.
When he reached the hallway, he noticed the door to Valyrie’s room was closed, and he prayed silently for the Creator to watch over her and guide her during her time of mourning. Remembering how he felt when Ismerelda had been killed, he decided to leave Valyrie be. He could only imagine how it must’ve felt to see her father killed before her very eyes—a feeling which likely would not have been matched even if they had been tortured by Piers and his men.
“Might I have a word?” Brice asked, snapping Laedron out of his thoughts.
Brice led Laedron into his room, then closed the door behind them. “I wanted to ask if you would mind if I trained with Caleb?”
Laedron raised an eyebrow. “Training?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about things. I’m not as big as Marac, and I’m not as smart as you—”
“Don’t put yourself down.”
Brice grinned. “I just want to make the most of my abilities, you see? I helped my parents in the loom, and I’ve always been handy with a needle. Such work takes nimbleness and precision.”
“So… Caleb is a tailor?”
“No, not at all.” Brice sighed, seeming frustrated. “I saw him practicing with locks a little while ago, and he showed me some of the basics. I was thinking maybe I could learn from him. Maybe that would be a useful skill to have.”
Laedron smiled. “Useful indeed. Very well, but don’t forget to practice your swordsmanship, too. We must always be ready for a fight.”
Opening the door, Brice bobbed his head. “Thanks.”
“Get some rest,” Laedron said on his way through the door. “Tomorrow will come sooner than we expect.”
Joining Marac in the common room, Laedron took a seat at the table, put down his spell book, and sipped from the cup he had been given earlier. “How do you feel about all this?”
Marac looked up from sharpening his sword. “Dangerous, but isn’t everything we do?”
“Perhaps.” The glints of candlelight on the blade drew Laedron’s eye. “It would seem we will be splitting up for a while. Jurgen and Valyrie, Brice and Caleb, and you and me.”
“Brice and who?” Marac was busy sharpening again.
“Piers’s man, the one I punched.”
“Ah, what’s the thimble doing with him?”
Laedron took another sip. “Learning of lock picking.”
“At least he’ll be making himself useful.” Marac held up the sword and inspected the edge. “About time.”
“Why are you so hard on him?”
“He’s soft.” Marac put the weapon on the table and took a swig from a cup. “He hasn’t had a hard day’s work in his entire life, and it shows.”
“Neither have I. Does it show in me, too?”
“It’s different with you, Lae. Your ma taught you to be strong and persevere, but Brice’s parents had resolved to see him working a loom for the rest of his days.”
“No matter. It might take more time, but I’m confident he’ll come around.”
“That makes one of us,” Marac said. “I’m not so convinced.”
“Give him time.” Laedron stood, grabbed his spell book, and patted Marac on the shoulder. “Apparently, we have plenty of it.”
“Lae?” Marac called out before Laedron entered the hall.
“Yes?”
“The wand and the scepter, what purpose do they serve?” Marac glanced at his sword. “Simply tools of the trade?”
“Yes,” Laedron said, then paused to consider a more thorough explanation. “To manifest our spells, we require three things—concentration, a focus, and an incantation. The wand, with its intricate carvings, sturdy weight, and rough finish, gives something real to focus upon.”
“And priests? They use staffs?”
“Or rings, like Jurgen’s.” Laedron grinned. He was glad Marac was showing interest in his craft. “Goodnight, my friend.”
After entering his room and closing the door, Laedron put the scepter on the nightstand, then placed the tome in his pack. He saw his practice wand poking through the flap on the side. As he traced the intricate carvings running deep along the shaft, he remembered how, during his training, he couldn’t reproduce an illusion of his wand. Then, he recalled the powerful image he had conjured from his memories, his happy days with Marac and his sister Laren by the old oak in Reven’s Landing. Before going to bed, Laedron knelt and appealed to the Creator for Ismerelda’s soul to arrive safely in the heavens.
