Casket of Souls (62 page)

Sorrow, joy, and relief warred in his heart. He didn’t know how to feel.

At the Palace he drew a few questioning looks given the lateness of the hour and his uncommon clothing, but a page took him at once to the royal residence.

Thero found Korathan alone in the darkened garden. He wore no robes or coat, but sat in his shirtsleeves, with one elbow on the stone table and his head resting on his hand, pale hair loose around his face. A wine bottle and cup stood before him on the table.

Before Thero could even bow, he said softly, “Phoria is dead, isn’t she?”

“You’ve had word?”

But the prince shook his head. “We shared a womb, and a lifetime. I’m told it’s common with twins—to know.” He sat back in his chair and looked at Thero. “The war is lost?”

“No, Highness, it’s won. I’ve had word from Klia herself.

Queen Phoria drove the Plenimarans to their border, then fell on the brink of victory. Princess Klia finished the task.”

“Thank Sakor for that, at least! Is there any suggestion that Phoria’s death was connected to your cabals?”

“None that I know of yet, Highness.”

“Then let it rest. Reltheus and the others have been convicted of conspiracy against the realm and banished.” He sighed. “I suppose we should have a drink. Sit with me, please.”

Impatient as he was to return to Seregil and the others, Thero could not refuse, and not just because of their difference in rank. It was a bittersweet victory for Korathan.

The prince filled his own cup, then pushed the bottle across to Thero. “To Phoria. Astellus carry her softly.”

“To Queen Phoria.” Thero raised the bottle and took a small sip; he had work ahead of him tonight, hopefully.

Korathan raised his cup again. “The queen is dead. Long live the queen!”

“Queen Elani, the Four protect her.”

They drank again.

“And to victory,” Korathan rasped, and Thero could tell the prince had started drinking long before he’d arrived.

“To victory, thank the Flame.”

They sat in silence for a moment, then Korathan cleared his throat and asked, “Phoria— She died well?”

“Yes, Highness, in the thick of battle. Klia said she’d tell you the rest when she returns. She sails tomorrow, bringing the queen’s body and the Sword of Gherilain back to the city.”

“A wise woman, my little sister. This should put an end to any further rumors.” He took another sip. “Between you and me, Thero, I know Elani will make a fine queen, but Klia would have made a great one.”

“She doesn’t want the crown. She’s said so a number of times. She loves soldiering.”

Korathan let out a mirthless laugh. “As do I. Here’s to choosing one’s own path. To Klia.”

“To Princess Klia.”

Silence fell again, and again it was Korathan who broke it.

“You and the others have served Skala well, even when ordered not to.”

“As loyal Skalans—” Thero began, but Korathan shook his head.

“I’m not a stupid man, Thero. The Watchers serve more than just queen and country.”

“But never are those in opposition, Highness.”

“Never?”

“I can only speak for myself, and for Nysander when I knew him, but no. Never.”

“I haven’t told Elani about you yet. What do you think I should do?”

Thero considered this seriously; for one fragile moment they were, if not peers, then two men who held the safety of the nation in their hands. At last he replied, “When the time is right you should tell her, in any way you like.”

Korathan raised an eyebrow. “When the time is right? When will that be?”

“When we are needed.”

“I see. Yes. Well, thank you for bringing word to me.” His face remained a calm mask as Thero rose to go, but the lightest of touches across the prince’s mind revealed a bottomless well of grief.

Thero felt strangely guilty at leaving the man alone, but he’d clearly been dismissed so that Korathan could grieve in private.

As soon as Thero was gone, Seregil gave the signal to Micum to move out. The man disappeared down the shadowy street, only to reappear at the front of the house in time to intercept the watchman and engage him in conversation. Seregil couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the other man appeared glad of a break in the night’s boredom.

Seregil and Alec stole to the back of the house. The back door let into a kitchen, as with most houses, and there were three windows, two to the left of the kitchen door, and one to the right. No light showed there.

The one on the right appeared to let into a dining room and was easily shimmed open. Silent as shadows, they slipped
inside, then Seregil crept to the kitchen doorway; there were no signs of any additional servants.

All the same, they remained cautious as they investigated the room on the far side of the kitchen—a bedroom with two narrow beds and clothing thrown about that spoke of the twins. There were several jewel boxes, but none of the pieces were labeled and without Thero, there was no way of knowing if there was any magic in the room. Instead they had to make a quick and thorough search, but found nothing hidden away or suspicious.

What should have been the main salon at the front of the house was nearly bare except for a few plain chairs and empty crates, and a mattress on the floor. A rack of wooden practice swords stood against the wall.

They found more jewel boxes in another bedroom beyond, which appeared to belong to Zell and Leea, but their takings had been modest. Another frustrating search found nothing of interest. Time was passing too quickly.

“If Thero hadn’t gone haring off, we’d be done by now,” Seregil muttered as they started up the stairs to the second floor.

“It must have been important,” Alec whispered back. “I wonder why he couldn’t tell us? And why we couldn’t hear the message?”

“There are different versions of that magic. Come on.”

The bare treads creaked under their boots as they climbed the steep stairway. It sounded too loud in the empty, silent house. The floor of the upstairs corridor was bare wood, too, and a bit creaky in places. This wouldn’t be a good house to burgle if anyone was home. Seregil far preferred the dependable marble floors and thick carpets in the homes of the rich.

There were more jewels in Brader and Merina’s room, and the children’s. Merina had the largest collection in a chest on her dressing table. Once again, none of the jewels in any of the rooms were locked away with anything but ordinary locks, and none of the pieces were labeled. Seregil glanced out the window and cursed softly under his breath at the span the moon had crossed since they’d begun. As he turned to go he collided with a dark shape that grabbed at him. He was
reaching for his knife when the shape growled, “It’s me, you fool!”

“And about time, too,” Seregil whispered back. “Go downstairs and work your magic. We couldn’t find anything.”

Leaving Thero to it, Seregil and Alec came at last to what was clearly Atre’s room, the best one, at the front of the house. It was lavishly decorated, while the others were much simpler, though well furnished. Atre’s bed was as large as the one at Wheel Street, with ornately carved bedposts and sumptuous tapestry hangings. There was a tall wardrobe, several clothes chests, and an expensive mirror on the wall, as well as an ivory-backed hand mirror on the dressing table. A writing table stood under the window overlooking the street, strewn with parchments. More overflowed from a basket on the floor beside the desk, awaiting scraping to be used again.

Seregil drew the velvet drapes closed and began with the writing table, Alec with the wardrobe, working by the glow of their lightstones.

The desk yielded nothing of note, aside from pages of what looked like a new play and sketches for costumes. Seregil had to stop himself from reading too much, as what he saw was quite good. Evil though he might be, Atre was a man of considerable talents.

He moved on to the dressing table—unusual in a man’s room. It was covered with jars of cosmetics, unguents of various sorts, the hand mirror, and a casket of jewelry. He sorted through them carefully but none of these pieces were labeled, either, and Illia’s ring and Elani’s emerald brooch were not among them. But he did find two pieces he recognized: an ornate woman’s gold hairpin set with a citrine and the ring he’d given to Kylith, who had gifted it to Atre.

As Thero joined them Seregil handed the articles to him. “Thero, look at these.”

The wizard took the pieces and closed his eyes for a moment. “Myrhichia, certainly,” he said, holding out the hairpin. “And Kylith—but the impressions are very weak.”

“I think Atre used these to kill them, then saved them as trophies.” Mouth set in a grim line, Seregil moved on to the
first of the clothes chests, rifling down through the layers of fine wool and silk but finding nothing. He did the same with the next one. Nothing unusual there, either.

Meanwhile Alec had been rummaging about in the wardrobe. Taking out the last of the boots and shoes, he tapped on the wooden panel in the bottom of it. “Hollow.”

Thero drew the orange sigil and they watched as it floated in tendrils past Alec’s shoulder and disappeared through the bottom of the wardrobe.

Alec ran his fingers around the edges of the panel. A moment later Seregil heard the snap of a device and Alec lifted up the panel to reveal the hidey-hole beneath it.

“Ha! Thought so,” Alec muttered. Underneath were a large rectangular leather case and a small strongbox with an ornate lock plate.

“I don’t need a spell,” whispered Thero. “I can feel the magic from here.”

Alec lifted the leather case out first. The padlock securing it was easily picked. Inside, it was divided into twelve sections padded with thick felt, nine of which contained sealed bottles; the remaining three bottles were empty.

“You were right, Seregil,” Alec whispered. “This is how many you thought were missing from Basket Street.”

Seregil pulled out one of the full bottles and held it to his light. It contained a lock of black hair. “Master Atre is very exact in his counting, which is all the more reason to worry about him noticing the missing bottles.”

Thero frowned. “It couldn’t be helped. Without them—”

“I wasn’t criticizing, Thero, just taking stock of the situation. Look for Illia’s ring.”

Seregil picked up another bottle and something clinked inside—a simple unglazed clay bakshi stone, the sort one could find in any of the poorer booths in the marketplaces. It must have been prized by someone. The liquid was clear. He handed it back to Thero, who inspected the wax seal.

“Same as the others,” the wizard murmured. “The ones with no symbol in the center are still clear. And the magic feels the same as those we found before.”

“So you could let the souls out of the clear ones?” whispered Alec.

“Hopefully.” Thero put them back in the case with obvious regret.

Of the other bottles, two were clear: one contained a colorful snail shell, the other a lock of red hair. The others were marked with the central symbol and cloudy, but Seregil could make out a cheap copper earring, a glass bakshi stone, a piece of broken clay with lines scratched into it, and a bit of frayed ribbon.

Thero slid the last one back into place with a sigh. “No ring.”

“We’re not done yet.” Alec carried the casket to the dressing table and held his light close to inspect the lock plate. “I think it’s trapped. Stand back.” Wrapping his hand thickly in the corner of his cloak, he gently inserted the tip of a bent pick into the lock hole. The trap released instantly, and several small needles flew out, propelled by powerful springs or magic. Two caught in the cloth around Alec’s hand. The others flew past him. Thero suddenly cried out and staggered.

Seregil turned in time to see the wizard raise a hand to his neck and begin to fall. Catching him, Seregil lowered him to the floor. A short steel needle protruded from Thero’s neck and Seregil yanked it out, but Thero’s eyes were already glazing over.

“Not much—of a nightrunner—am I?” the wizard gasped.

“I said stand back!” Alec exclaimed.

“What do we do?” Seregil slapped the wizard’s cheeks lightly as the man’s eyes slid shut. “Thero, isn’t there some spell to slow poison?”

“The box,” Thero mumbled. “Open it.”

“We’ve got to get him to Valerius!” said Alec, kneeling beside the wizard and feeling for his pulse. “His heart’s hardly beating.”

“Go fetch Micum.”

Alec dashed away.

“The box,” Thero rasped, and something dark trickled
from the corner of his mouth into his short beard. “Please. Must know.”

With the horrible feeling that he might be granting his friend his last wish, Seregil finished with the lock and opened the casket. Inside were three bottles. He gathered them up and knelt beside Thero. The man’s pupils were huge, his face deathly pale. More of the black liquid ran down his cheek.

“There are three,” Seregil told him, holding them up. “Two are milky and labeled. One says TANIA and the other is EONA. Bilairy’s Balls, Lady Tania died a week ago, now he’s killed Laneus’s widow.”

“Last symbol,” Thero choked out. “Do they have it?”

“Yes.”

“Seals—the soul.” Thero coughed and black spittle speckled his lips and chin. His breath was rattling in his throat. Clutching Seregil’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, he rasped, “Find Illia’s—before he can—”

“Before he can seal it with the final mark. I understand. But what if he does?”

“She’ll die.” He coughed up a black gout and began to choke.

Seregil got an arm under his shoulders and lifted Thero so he could breathe more easily. “Don’t die! You’re just getting the hang of all this.”

The wizard managed what sounded like a chuckle, but he was shivering badly.

Alec hurried in. “Micum’s gone for his horse. He’ll need our help getting Thero on it.”

“What about the watchman?”

“Micum said he’d deal with him.”

They carried the wizard down and found Micum already at the back door with his tall grey.

“Maker’s Mercy!” he exclaimed softly. “Get him over Stormy’s withers so I can keep a hold on him.”

“We’re going to kill him!” whispered Alec.