Rylan thought surely some radiant, or maybe a full talon of dragons, would be sent from the imperial eyrie to chase him down. Bough and bloody fucking branch, he’d been seen by a dozen people, Lorelei and Creed included, and that was just at the plaza. He’d been furious with Vedron for defying him, but when they reached the elm grove, he was grateful.
“It was still dangerous,” Rylan said to her as he slid down her shoulder.
Vedron merely huffed.
He scratched the wattle beneath her chin. “Don’t do it again, okay?”
He untied the cloth bag containing the chalice from his belt and stared at it, thinking about what to do next. He was tempted to head back to the Holt, but doing so would implicate him. If Lorelei hadn’t already figured out it was him, she surely would when she found out he’d suddenly disappeared. And he still hadn’t found out a thing from Master Renato. He needed to get a look at the journal Ash had mentioned.
Rylan stuffed the chalice and the linen-wrapped cube of crainh into one of Vedron’s saddlebags, then took out a grapnel and rope and attached it to his belt. “Go to the foothills and hide. I’ll call you if I have need.”
Vedron lowered her head and nudged him with her snout.
Rylan was heartbroken. “I can’t. I have to stay here for a while. I’ll come as soon as I can.”
Vedron looked like she didn’t believe a word of it. She trilled sadly and launched into the cool night air toward the Holt.
Rylan headed toward Highreach. By the time he reached the palace, several hours had passed and reckoning was nearing. He hid in a small stand of pine and waited for the guards to walk past him. Then he threw his grapnel up and scaled the wall.
He scanned the grounds and the palace windows for onlookers. Finding none, he dropped down, ran across the dew-slick lawn, and entered the infirmary through the same window he’d left ajar earlier.
He was just beginning to change out of his smoky clothes when he heard a creaking sound. The injured eyrie hand, Betheny, sat up in her bed. The pale wisplight at the head of the room made her look sickly.
“It’s only me, Rylan Holbrooke.”
She glanced at the window. “The palace has doors, you know.”
“I didn’t want to bother the servants. They have long enough days as it is.”
She nodded politely, then said, “I wanted to thank you for helping me.”
“It was the least I could do.”
Betheny shook her head. “You risked your life. Stromm told me to tell you thanks as well. I adore Bothymus. I was worried they were going to put him down.”
She was a very nice girl, but Rylan was tired and needed to think. “Well, you’re most welcome, as is Stromm.”
“You could tell him yourself. He’ll be back in a few days.”
“I’ll be gone by then, I’m afraid.”
Betheny looked crestfallen. “You will?”
Rylan nodded. “I’m leaving for Glaeyand this morning, afternoon at the latest.”
Her smile faltered. “I’m sure it will be nice to go home.”
“What about you? Did the nuns tell you when you could leave?”
“A few more days. Maybe a week.” She lay down and pulled the blanket over her. “I’m sorry, Master Holbrooke. I’m so tired.”
“It’s all right. And please, call me Rylan.”
She smiled at that. “Good night, Rylan.”
“Good night, Betheny.”
He was exhausted, too—beyond exhausted—but the events at the library kept playing over and over in his mind. The chalice was clearly important to the Hissing Man—he wouldn’t have gone himself otherwise—but why was it important? Why would he be willing to kill over an old bronze cup? Raef might know, but the chances Rylan would see him before he left were slim.
He napped a short while, but was awoken by reckoning’s brilliant light. He ate, giving Master Renato and any other lingering alchemysts time to head down to the shrine, then went to the alchemystry and found its doors locked. He took the lock picks from inside his boot heel and easily clicked it open.
Renato’s office was at the far end of the room. The door was unlocked. He went to the wardrobe and found the strongbox but it was locked and its lock was considerably more complex than the one on the alchemystry door. It took a few minutes longer than he would’ve liked, but he popped it open and threw back the heavy lid. As he’d hoped, Korvus’s journal was inside. He flipped to the last few pages and scanned them, hoping to find out why Korvus disappeared, but found little more than tables and notes about the relative strength and flow of aura and umbra in the Holt.
He stuffed the journal behind his back under his belt, then untucked his shirt to hide it. Then he left the alchemystry. In the palace hall he came across the leggy chamberlain. “Ah, Theron, I was hoping I’d find you.”
Theron sniffed. “You were?”
“Yes, I’m feeling much better. I was hoping you might be able to arrange a flight back to Glaeyand for me.”
Theron flashed a smile. “As it happens, a courier is leaving within the hour. Does that suffice?”
“It does, thank you.”
Rylan headed toward the infirmary barely able to hide his smile. Alra had truly shined on him. He was going to escape Ancris having done everything he’d hoped to accomplish and more.
But when he got to the infirmary, Betheny was gone and Lorelei, goddess save him, was rooting through his things. She was holding the shirt he’d worn the previous night, and Faedryn’s foul laugh, she was smelling it.
“Lorelei,” he said as calmly as he could manage.
“Hello, Rylan.”
At the sound of footsteps behind him, Rylan turned to find Creed in the doorway. He crossed his arms over his barrel chest and leaned against the stone door frame.
Lorelei dropped Rylan’s shirt onto the bed. “Visit to a bonfire last night?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Oh?” She stepped into the aisle between the beds and faced him. “And what manner would that be, precisely?”
“I found myself waxing a bit nostalgic yesterday.” He gestured toward the rear of the palace. “I lit a fire in the cooking pit to remind myself of the Holt.”
“That sounds pleasant. Anyone join you?”
“No, it was just me.”
Lorelei nodded calmly, too calmly. “I find the written word soothes a troubled mind best.”
Rylan motioned to his bed. “I’d love to chat, but I should be getting ready. I’m heading back to Glaeyand shortly.”
“Then please”—Lorelei stepped aside and waved to his bed with a theatrical bow—“don’t let me stop you, but I think you might be interested in what I’ve been reading.”
Rylan walked past her to the far side of the bed, set his rucksack on the mattress, folded the shirt Lorelei had been sniffing, and stuffed it inside.
“Just this morning,” Lorelei continued, “I read about a boy who grew up in Thicket. I read about a man, his foster father, whom the boy called his uncle. I read how the man was caught teaching the boy how to bond with dragons, how the man was sentenced to burn for it. The boy was set to burn as well, until his uncle bawled out the boy’s true lineage. Turns out the boy was related to none other than the Imperator”—she motioned to his left hand—“so the magistrate merely had the boy’s finger cut off.”
“You’re acting like this is all some revelation,” Rylan said. “It’s ancient history, recorded in imperial records for well over a decade now.”
“Yes, but what most people forgot, or never knew in the first place, is that though the uncle’s bondmate, a viridian, was mauled and killed by the inquisitor’s bronze, its two kits escaped.”
Rylan almost choked on his tongue.
“Last night,” Lorelei said, pacing the aisle, “a suspected murderer and arsonist was spotted flying off the roof of the imperial library on a viridian while the fire he’d lit raged”—she glanced at his rucksack—“causing quite a bit of smoke.”
“Perhaps you should ask around the city.” Rylan placed the last of his personal effects—a bar of soap, a tin of paste to clean his teeth, and his smoking pipe and bag of tabbaq—into the rucksack. “I hear the Red Knives have quite a few arsonists and murderers in their ranks.”
Lorelei paused her pacing and smiled. “It’s funny you should mention that. Given the variety of drake, I thought it might have been Blythe I saw. But a former inquisitor, Kellen Vesarius, told me he’d seen a man.”
Rylan almost winced. Kellen was alive. “That would tend to narrow things down a bit, wouldn’t it?”
“It would, indeed.” Lorelei resumed her pacing. “The two viridian kits got me to wondering where Blythe grew up. Turns out, she was born and raised in Thicket, just like you.”
“Yes, we played together frequently near the Vagabond.” Rylan crouched and, when Lorelei looked at creed, stuffed Korvus’s journal into the rucksack.
“She’s a Knife, Rylan.”
“So what? Is knowing a Red Knife a crime now? Because if it is, you’re going to have to arrest the entire Holt.”
“Knowing a Knife isn’t a crime, but attempting to kill a former inquisitor is. As is murdering the library’s archivist.”
“I know nothing about that,” Rylan said.
“No? Seems like revenge on the man who had your uncle killed would be a pretty strong motivator to come to Ancris.”
“I came here to help Bothymus.”
“Ah, yes. Bothymus.” From a pouch on her belt, she pulled out a leather ball and unwrapped it. Inside were a dragon’s golden chrysolite crop and its matching fetter. “I saw how grateful he was to you for helping heal his wound.” She showed him the crop and fetter. “But behind the eyrie, he was unruly and distrustful.”
Rylan shrugged. “Dragons can be fickle.”
“Not Bothymus. At the time, I thought maybe the supposed rift had caused his intractability. Now I think perhaps you had some other interaction with him that I’m not aware of. Which might have led to the degradation of his fetter.”
“You’re reaching,” Rylan said, cinching his rucksack. “You’re trying to turn me into the villain.”
Lorelei smiled coldly. “I’m rather interested in geology, alchemy, and how the two intersect with dragon husbandry. I’ve read quite a few volumes on the subjects. I even worked in the eyrie for a time before I decided to become an inquisitor. Crops and fetters are often replaced for various reasons.”
“Lorelei, you’re getting carried away—”
“Centuries ago,” she continued, “eyrie masters, fearing dragons would go mad if their fetters were simply taken away, used viridian acid to weaken them. The acid formed tiny fissures in the chrysolite”—she held the stones up again—“much like the ones now running through Bothymus’s fetter.”
At the very edge of Rylan’s consciousness, Vedron sensed his panic and was growing frantic. She bounded along a stream, raising her wings.
Stay, Rylan willed. Stay, Vedron!
If the inquisitors saw her, he was a dead man. He was certainly in a bind—Lorelei’s story went deeper than he thought it would—but even so, it was patchy. He might be able to lie his way out of it or draw on his father’s name to be allowed to return to Glaeyand. Even without his father’s help, Rylan had plenty of his own money. He could get an advocate to represent him if he was brought before a magistrate.
“Did you come here to murder Kellen Vesarius?” Lorelei asked.
“No, I did not.” It was only half-true, of course—he had intended to do precisely that.
Creed seemed to clench his teeth.
“You’re lying,” Lorelei said.
“No, I’m not.”
“Then why did you come? And don’t tell me it’s about Bothymus. I know it has something to do with the peat Blythe brought to Ancris and the meeting with Brother Mayhew at the mines. Tell me, Rylan, and I can make sure this goes easier for you.”
Part of him wanted to tell her, but he was looking for the same answers. The Red Knives were up to something big, something dangerous, but he didn’t know what, and apparently neither did she. For a moment, he thought about telling her everything. She was a brilliant woman—he was sure she could help him unravel the mystery—but how could she help him if he was dead? Telling her anything would be tantamount to chaining himself to the Anvil.
“I know you want answers,” he finally said. “I would too, but I’m telling you, you’re looking in the wrong place.”
She seemed disappointed but not surprised. She put her hand on the hilt of her rapier and pointed to the archway at end of the hall. “Step away from your things, Rylan. You’re coming with us.”