Lorelei tugged on Bothymus’s reins and guided him toward the circle of standing stones below. The mountain wind was chilly, the darkened sky practically cloudless. Reckoning was near, the vyrd, the hill it stood upon, and the ordered landscape of Ancris still bathed in violet light, but the sky was brightening in the east.
After their interrogation of Brother Mayhew, Creed had mentioned a barrow mound near Glaeyand. Dozens of leaders of the resistance during the Talon Wars were buried under it, and the Red Knives had been known to use it for important gatherings. Lorelei and Creed were headed to Glaeyand along with Praefectus Damika to request permission to check it out.
Bothymus landed in the center of the vyrd with broad sweeps of his wings. As he settled himself, Creed stepped between two of the standing stones. “You sure we need that great bloody lizard along?”
“No”—Lorelei slipped down along Bothymus’s lowered shoulder and landed on the stones with a clomp—“but that’s precisely why I’m bringing him. I’d rather have him in Glaeyand’s eyrie doing nothing but munching on ferrets than regret leaving him here.”
Lorelei wore loose-fitting, homespun clothes commonly found in the Holt. Creed was dressed similarly in huntsman’s garb, a tricorn hat, and a bow and quiver strapped across his back. The only thing that gave him away was his beard. It was too neatly trimmed. As were his eyebrows. Anyone looking closely would peg him as having come from one of the capitals.
Lorelei gripped the crop and guided Bothymus to one side of the vyrd, and Creed joined her. With reckoning near, people had begun to gather beyond the stones, waiting to pass to another vyrd. Some seemed excited, others bored. Lorelei’s stomach, meanwhile, was already beginning to sour. “Bloody hell, I hate this part.”
“Beats riding a dragon,” Creed said.
“You know, I’d be sad if I were wrong as often as you are.” She pointed to the menhirs around them. “The maze makes you feel like you’re being torn apart and rebuilt, but it’s not really you who arrives on the other end, is it? It’s someone who just looks like you.”
“So dramatic. A flash of vertigo, a whistle”—he snapped his fingers—“and you’re there.”
Lorelei rolled her eyes. “Riding on the back of a dragon is freeing. You never think about the views?”
“What”—he pointed to Bothymus—“like the ground rushing up at you after he throws you?”
“Bothymus would never do that, would you boy?”
Bothymus gurgled and gave the barbs along the back of his neck a good long rattle. Creed, his burly arms crossed, chuckled, but then he turned pensive. “Look, that stuff that Brother Mayhew gave up the other day.”
“Yeah?”
“Did it feel too easy to you?”
“Easy?” Lorelei gawped at him. “You saw him. He was terrified.”
“Terrified men can still lie. It felt like something he wanted to give up, especially that cock-and-bull story about the powder in the mine being some kind of euphoric.”
“Yeah, that one stank like one of Ordren’s farts, but we have to start somewhere.”
“Creed!” called a deep feminine voice from behind them, “Lorelei!”
It was Praefectus Damika, wearing her swallowtail coat and a tall, wide-brimmed hat. She was halfway up the hill, sipping from a mug as she walked. The brass badge pinned to her coat glowed in the light of pre-reckoning. When she arrived, slightly winded, she handed Lorelei a piece of paper. “This came last night.”
It was the results of Galla’s autopsy on Tomas’s corpse. Halfway down the page, Lorelei paused in her reading. Galla, like all examiners, had alchemycal agents that could test blood for aura or umbra. Given Tomas’s bloodshot eyes and the way he’d been acting, Lorelei was certain he’d taken something or been drugged, but . . .“She found no traces of aura or umbra in his blood?”
Damika took one last swallow from her mug, tipped the remains of her tea onto the space between two stones, and strapped the mug by its handle to a loop on her belt. “Apparently not.” She pointed to the bottom of the report. “See there, though?”
The conclusion read, Likely proximate cause of death was drowning. However, as noted above, evidence is consistent with cobalt dragon compulsion, which was likely a contributing factor.
“Galla thinks Fraoch used her breath to subdue Tomas,” Damika said.
“It would make some sense,” Creed said, peering over Lorelei’s shoulder. “Llorn would’ve wanted Tomas quiet and docile.”
Lorelei handed the autopsy report back to Damika. “I don’t deny a compulsion might have contributed to Tomas’s death, but that wouldn’t explain his behavior at the Tulip.” The breath of cobalts caused confusion initially, which allowed the dragon who’d exhaled it to lull and control its prey, but it didn’t allow for nuance of any sort.
Damika folded the autopsy and stuffed it inside her coat. “When we reach Glaeyand, let me do the talking. Imperator Lyndenfell is particular about interruptions, so speak only when I invite you to, or Lyndenfell does.”
“Yes, Praefectus,” Lorelei and Creed said in unison.
A small crowd, including four ferrymen, entered the vyrd from the opposite side. The tallest among them was a blue-robed fellow with a narrow jaw, arching eyebrows and, like all seasoned ferrymen, ivory eyes. “In your groups!” he bellowed. “Huddle close. Reckoning’s almost upon us!”
As the crowd broke into four groups, each with a ferryman, a flash of goldenrod streaked across the sky. Then the sky came alive with yellows, oranges, and rusty reds.
The tall ferryman, the one assigned to Lorelei’s group, opened his leather bag and took out a lucerta, harvested from an indurium—perhaps Bothymus himself. In the light of the reckoning, the scale scintillated a silvery blue. “May Alra’s light guide us,” he said, then placed the scale on his tongue.
Lorelei was so tense she could hardly move. She felt a tug at her navel, then a high-pitched whistle sounded. Unlike the previous times she’d traveled through the maze, she didn’t feel as if she were being torn apart. She felt as if she were caught in a bramble, and that its branches were growing, wrapping around her limbs, chest, and neck, slowly choking her.
She coughed, blinked, and found herself in another vyrd entirely. The stones were shorter, darker, and weather worn. The air was slightly warmer and more humid. She was surrounded by a forest full of towering trees that all but occluded the splashes of pale orange in the sky overhead.
“Lorelei?” Creed called out.
She wanted to answer him, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of being suffocated. When Bothymus trumpeted, she shivered and looked around. Six ferrymen and nearly thirty travelers were staring at her.
Lorelei shook her head. “Sorry,” she said softly, “I’m back.”
Creed leaned close and put a hand on her shoulder. “You sure?”
“It was just worse than normal.”
“Okay, but—”
“I’m fine, Creed.”
“Welcome,” a voice called from beyond the stones. It was Willow Lyndenfell, the imperator’s daughter. She was lithe and pretty, and wore a saffron cloak with its hood pulled up.
Her words seemed to wake everyone up. The ferrymen strode from the vyrd, and their groups of passengers followed. Each person nodded to Willow as they passed her on the flagstone path. While some went to a citadel tree with a winding set of stairs, others continued on toward Tallow, but no one approached the dragonbone lift, which Lorelei realized had been reserved for Willow and her guests.
“Come,” Damika said. “We have an appointment to keep.”
Creed and Lorelei followed Damika from the vyrd. In a small blessing, the feeling like the breath was being squeezed from her faded and vanished altogether as she passed beyond the standing stones.
“My father bids you welcome,” Willow said. “He received your dove and is pleased to meet you in Valdavyn.” She turned to Lorelei. “You can send Bothymus up to the eyrie or ride him there yourself, as you wish.”
Lorelei wanted to ride Bothymus, but she shook her head. She didn’t want to miss what was said on the way up to the imperial residence. She squeezed the crop, urging Bothymus to fly to the eyrie. “I’ll join you.”
She felt something like indignation from Bothymus, like he’d been hoping to stretch his wings. He bellowed—silencing the birdsong in the trees—and flew into the air, a silhouette in the dawn light, and was lost beyond the leafy canopy.
Willow led them into the dragonbone lift, closed the door behind them.
“The news of Aarik’s burning is sending waves through the Holt,” Willow said as the lift began to rise.
“I should hope so,” Damika said. “It will give the Red Knives pause, no?”
“It will incite them, I’m afraid.”
They passed the other travelers, hiking up the corkscrew stairs.
“Are you saying Aarik shouldn’t have been killed?” Damika asked.
“I’m saying there are realities we in the Holt face that Ancris does not.”
“Such as?”
“Let me propose an arrangement,” Willow said. “I’ll stop pretending that Aarik’s death isn’t, on the whole, the very end a ruthless enemy like him deserves if you’ll stop pretending it isn’t Glaeyand or Andalingr or Hrindegaard that will pay the price.”
Damika frowned. “The price must be borne, whatever it is. Aarik’s crimes needed to be punished. A message needs to be sent to Llorn or anyone else who crown themselves King of the Holt that they too will be hunted.”
“Hear me, Praefectus. Aarik Bloodhaven deserved what he got. But the Holt must be vigilant. A trade caravan traveling west along the Salt Road was raided. Llorn led it. Several merchants and their company were killed, their throats slit, their bodies hung along the route as a warning to all who would think to steal the treasures of the Holt and deliver them to the empire.” Willow paused, allowing the words to sink in. “What I’m saying is this . . . We could have been given a proper warning about Aarik’s sentence. We could have used more time to prepare.”
Damika looked like she was going to argue, but instead she said, “Your point isn’t lost on me. But you must know that the Church forced us to hand Aarik over to them. We only learned he was being taken to the Anvil hours beforehand.”
Willow sighed. “I understand you were unable to send us a warning, but anything you can do in the future to forewarn us would be appreciated.” After that, she moved on to lighter subjects—news from Ancris, the quintarch’s health, and the like.
They reached a platform and entered a second lift, which bore them up to Glaeyand proper. Wooden walkways, wide platforms, and viewing decks were spread all about. Bridgeboughs, fitted with planks and railings formed walkways from one citadel to another. More bridges were supported by elegantly curved cables and rope, and countless ringwalks wrapped around the citadel trunks, leading to burrows and shops. In the places with heavy foot traffic, broad nets were hung as a safety measure.
The lift thudded to a stop in Glaeyand’s upper reaches. Willow led them to the entry deck to Valdavyn, the imperial residence, an expansive home with several wings that snaked between and through the trees. She nodded to the armored sentries and led them inside, past a man in his mid-twenties with honey skin and dark, curly hair pulled into a tail. He was strikingly handsome, due in no small part to his gold-flecked green eyes. He stepped to the side, and Willow swept past him with hardly a glance.
He nodded to Lorelei and Creed as they passed. “Welcome to Valdavyn.”
Lorelei nodded back, feeling her cheeks flush. He seemed overly familiar. Normally, she would have felt put off by it, but she found herself wondering about him. Creed eyed her with a broad grin and she slapped his arm.
“Shush.”
Damika glared at them.
“Pardon me,” Creed asked as they rounded a corner, “but who was that man?”
“Rylan Holbrooke,” Willow said over her shoulder. “Just ignore him.”
Lorelei recalled the name. He was Willow’s half-brother, an illegitimate child, if she remembered right. His dark skin meant he had the blood of the Kin running through his veins. How he had ended up in Valdavyn with the imperator’s legitimate children, she had no idea.
When they reached the audience chamber, Marstan Lyndenfell was sitting on his wooden throne. He looked like a king of old, complete with pepper gray hair, full mustache and beard, and a gold circlet with a jade spread-winged roc. He and Willow had similar, fair features. All but their eyes, Lorelei noted. Willow’s were dark brown; Marstan’s were the same striking green as the bastard’s.
Willow walked to Marstan’s side and spoke into his ear. When she was done, Marstan spread his arms and smiled at them like a wolf baring its teeth. “The Holt welcomes you.”
Damika told him first about their purpose in Glaeyand. She told him of the tip they’d receive from Tomas, the meeting in the mine and the chase that followed, and Tomas’s death. Lastly, she touched on the council of Knives that Llorn had mentioned and their guesses as to where it might be held. Damika said nothing of Aarik’s request to speak to him or the bribes Brother Mayhew had mentioned—that was a conversation that could only be had when she and the imperator were alone.
Marstan remained largely silent, interrupting only to ask pointed, clarifying questions. When it was done, he shifted in his chair. “Let me understand you. Llorn Bloodhaven, a man who’d like nothing more than to set fire to Glaeyand and watch it burn, mentioned that a council of Knives would soon take place. Brother Mayhew, a confessed agent of our enemy, told you under threat of being handed over to the Church and consumed by a bloody dragon that it might be held near Glaeyand. And you believe it will be used to discuss the succession of the Red Knives.”
“That’s correct,” Damika said. “We don’t know why they are meeting, but with Aarik’s death, Llorn will likely use it to exert his authority.”
Marstan smiled. “The evidence seems thin, Praefectus.”
Damika nodded deferentially. “What we have are leads. We’re requesting permission to pursue them.”
“My daughter tells me she informed you of the somewhat precarious position we find ourselves in.”
Lorelei understood that to mean Marstan’s position was precarious, what with the coming council vote. Damika surely understood that as well as Lorelei, but, ever the politician, she nodded and said, “If you’re concerned about the effect our investigation may have—”
“I’m concerned about inquisitors from Ancris barging in and stepping on toes. I’m concerned about the safety of Glaeyand, the Holt, and even the empire.”
“Inquisitors Lorelei and Creed are more than capable—”
“I’m sure they are, but they would be operating in an environment they have little understanding of.”
“I trust my inquisitors, Imperator. I beg your permission—”
Marstan leaned forward in his chair. “Your request is denied.”