The Consuls of the Vicariate (18 page)

O
utside Vicar Forane’s house, Greathis ordered, “Cover all the exits, men. Take her alive, but defend yourselves if she attacks.”

Laedron watched the guards surround the residence, then turned to study the building. Fresh yellow paint had been carefully applied to every brick, and the lacquer on the exposed wooden frame still sparkled in the torchlight. On either side of the heavy wooden door stood well-trimmed bushes covered with white flowers. Not a single crack could be found in the steps leading to the front door.

Greathis walked toward the door, seeming either unafraid or careless of the possibilities of what might happen. He knocked three times, each rap of his iron gauntlet against the wood producing an echo.

After just enough time to make Laedron apprehensive, the door creaked open, and a young girl stepped out. “How might I help you gentlemen?”

“We’ve come to see your mistress,” Greathis replied. “Could you tell her to come speak with me?”

With a deep bow, the girl disappeared inside, and not long after, Laedron heard a woman ask, “What did they say they wanted?” from somewhere inside.

“They didn’t say. Only said they wanted to see the mistress of the house, m’lady,” the girl replied.

A woman stepped outside, pulling a robe tight around her body as if trying to hide her night clothes. “Ah, Master Greathis. I didn’t expect you this evening.”

Laedron observed Brice holding the hilt of his sword tightly, and he followed suit by reaching within his garments to find his scepter. Glancing at Marac, Laedron noticed his hand shaking, but he had a tight grip on his blade.
He’s afraid
.
If she doesn’t come peacefully, I shall have to act quickly
.

Greathis bent at the knees, seeming to gain better footing in anticipation for a fight. “I’m sorry to come here with the hour so late, but I’ve heard disturbing news, rumors that only you could lay to rest.”

“Rumors, Commander? What sort of rumors?”

“I shall have to take a look around inside. Do you mind?”

“Mind? Look, Greathis, there’s nothing wrong here. Perhaps you might find some true criminals in the low quarter, someone deserving of this harassment.”

“I’m sorry, madam, but there most certainly
is
something wrong here. Stand aside.”

Forane squared her shoulders, putting her hands on her hips. “And if I don’t?”

“Then, I shall have to detain you.”

Laedron drew his wand, concealing the subtle movement from Forane, then whispered an incantation.

Forane’s tone turned from obstinate to hostile. “Detain
me
? Do not forget your place, guard.”

She flung open her robe and withdrew a black metal rod. Marac and Greathis drew their swords in unison, but before she could utter a word, Laedron nudged Greathis aside and flicked his wrist. A blue blast of energy shot from the ruby scepter, ensnaring Forane in a web of energy. The guards must have heard the spell because they clamored to the front of the house.

Laedron concentrated on his spell, tightening the fibrous twine until Forane’s arms were forced down to her sides. The young girl emerged from the doorway, snatched the rod from the vicar’s hand, and tossed it over to Brice. She then gave Forane a shove, sending the woman to the ground.

“Thank you, Collette,” Brice said, placing the rod into a pouch at his side.

“Bind her hands.” Greathis handed a set of manacles to one of his men. “And put a gag in her mouth.”

Brice led the way into the house and upstairs to Forane’s study. Pushing open the door, Laedron spied innumerable scrolls lying strewn about the desktop. He walked to the writing table, and Greathis joined him.

Greathis read each of the letters, his expression hardly changing the entire time. Finally, he said, “Madness. All of this.”

Brice approached. “Mad it may be, but it is still the truth.”

“Take all of these letters and deliver them to my office,” Greathis said to one of the guards, then he turned to another militia man. “Once we’re done here, seal the house. No one in, no one out.”

They both replied, “Yes, Master.”

“Genevieve Forane… I can’t believe it.”

Laedron folded his arms. “Vicar Jurgen couldn’t believe it, either. Why does no one think this woman is capable of what she’s done?”

“Before this war business, she was kind, kinder than any woman I’ve ever met. Sincere, friendly, and abiding to all who approached her. She’s changed dramatically in a short period of time.”

“Perhaps she might be able to tell us why,” Marac said. “Now might be a good time to ask.”

“Yes, yes. Let us return her to the headquarters.”

* * *

Marac stopped Laedron just before the entrance to the militia building. “Lae, mind if I have a word?”

Laedron nodded.

“I-I’m having a little trouble.” Marac flexed his hand. “Ever since I was captured, I’ve had this tremble. It started off innocent enough, but it’s grown worse since we arrived in this city.”

“What do you think it is? A sickness?”

“No, not a sickness… not unless you consider cowardice to be an ailment.”

“Cowardice?” Laedron asked. “You’ve stood at my side in the face of danger. I wouldn’t consider that cowardly, not in the least.”

“Yes, I’ve stood by you, my friend. I’ve yet to swing my sword in anger against a foe, however, and I fear what may happen if it is required of me. Every time we face off against one of these mages, I can’t keep myself from shaking.”

“It’s natural, Marac. The fear reminds you that you’re still alive.”

Marac closed his eyes and sighed. “I wish I could be as brave as you.”

Laedron was speechless. Marac never seemed to be afraid, no matter what they had faced. Laedron had often wished that he was as fearless and brash as his friend.

“In time,” Laedron said, “these feelings will go away. What happened to Mikal was horrible, and we should always remember it, but we can’t go through life dwelling on it. We have to forge ahead and get through it together, brother.”

“You’ve never faltered, Lae. You’ve led us through thick and thin—”

“And I was just afraid as everybody else, maybe more. When we were young, do you remember Calvert telling us stories about the great warriors and adventurers?”

With a tear welling in his eye, Marac bobbed his head.

“How they were always brave and never backed down? How they fought with their dying breaths if needed? When they were hurt, they laughed at death and mocked the enemy?”

Marac bobbed his head again.

“That’s us, Marac. A few hundred years from now, they’ll tell stories of Marac Reven, of Laedron Telpist, and of Brice Warren—how they fought bravely and never backed down, how they laughed at pain and spat upon the enemy, no matter how daunting. For now, we have to live it, and the living part isn’t so easy. The tales tell us what we should aspire to be, not what we must be when we begin the journey.”

Marac wiped his face. “All right. Let’s see what Forane has to say about all of this. I’m tired of feeling around in the dark.”

They met Greathis in his office, where Forane lay on the floor, gagged and bound in chains. She seemed more like prey caught in a trap than the horrible monster her letters portrayed.
Surely she must be putting up an act
.

Greathis pawed through the confiscated items spread across his desk. “A black rod, letters to someone named ‘D’ about assassinating Vicar Jurgen, and other suspect materials. We have been busy, haven’t we?”

He received a grumble in reply.

“Remove her muzzle so we might hear what she has to say for herself,” Greathis said, gesturing at the woman on the floor. Marac obliged.

“You’ll never get away with this, Greathis,” Forane snarled. “Employing a mage in your militia? You’ll join me at the gallows.”

“We’ll deal with that issue when it comes up.
If
it comes up, I should say. For now, I have some questions for you.”

She smiled. “Ask, but don’t expect me to answer.”

“Why would you conspire to kill Vicar Jurgen?”

“Me? I would never do such a thing.”

“Come now. No need to waste our time with these games.”

“Who’s playing games? I know nothing.”

“Shall I read an excerpt of your correspondence, woman? ‘Instruct him to keep a lookout for the priest Jurgen and tell him you will pay tenfold if he would see fit to do away with that problem for us.’ Who was this mercenary?”

“We already know that,” Laedron said. “His name was Lester, and he was a member of the Shimmering Dawn.”

Forane turned her head. “And how do you know that?”

“You met with one of our informants near the bell tower the other night. You offered him payment if he would do away with Jurgen.”

“You seem to have all the answers already,” Forane said. “What do you need from me?”

Laedron produced the black sack and emptied the onyx stones into his hand. “For starters, you could tell me what these are for.”

She laughed and turned her head. “I’ll never tell you.”

Greathis peered at the stones. “She doesn’t have to tell. I know what they are.”

Forane gazed at Greathis with apparent surprise.

Laedron said, “We found them on one of the mages in black. What can you tell us about them?”

“A tool of Necromancers, I’m afraid. Have you ever heard the story of Vrolosh?”

Laedron exhaled heavily. “Several times.”

“Then you should know what they are.”

“They were never mentioned.”

“It would seem the Falacorans kept the story intact while some of the details fell through the cracks in more distant reaches,” Greathis said. “Long ago, Azura stood against Vrolosh, Master Necromancer and servant of Syril. Vrolosh and Syril agreed that Vrolosh would be given even greater power in exchange for new souls. A deal with a demon.

Syril imparted the knowledge of creating these stones, known as soulstones, in order to ease Vrolosh’s task. The souls would be captured in these and given to his master in darkness, presumably for eternal torment.”

Greathis paused. “The passage of the original story goes like this:

And into the stones Vrolosh cast their souls,

To trap and bind them in shards of darkest night.

For the master, always the master—Syril, the prince of hate.
”

Laedron felt a little sick, realizing that the stones giving off a faint light contained the essences of dead men. “Those mages were collecting souls for Syril?”

Greathis shrugged. “Perhaps, but likely not. A lesser known part of the tale tells of how Vrolosh disobeyed Syril, instead choosing to use the power of the stones for his own ends. That, as some would believe, is what made it possible for Azura to defeat Vrolosh at the end of the Great War. Vrolosh’s arrogance and thirst for new heights of power made Syril turn his back on the Necromancer.”

“What are they used for now?” Laedron brought his hand close to Forane’s face. “Some kind of dark ritual?”

Forane licked her lips and eyed the soulstones as if the mere sight of them instilled a feeling of want. “They’re meaningless to you. You could give them to me…”

Greathis crouched beside her and shouted, “What are they for?”

“Many things,” Forane said, lowering her eyes. “If I tell you, will you give them to me?”

“I might consider it. Go on.” Greathis stood and leaned on the front of his desk, folding his arms.

“Augmentation.”

Laedron considered her simple response. He thought the effects he had suffered when he had returned Brice to life—his hair graying, the sudden appearance of wrinkles on his face. The purpose of the stones became clear to him.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Greathis asked.

“I think I know,” Laedron said. “The harvested souls can be used for powerful spells that would normally be fueled by the essence of the conjurer.”

“Yes, young sorcerer,” Forane said, smiling as if filled with accomplishment and satisfaction. “Now, give them to me.”

“What would you use them for, Vicar?” Laedron asked.

“They have promised me immortality, and by these stones do I acquire it.”

“Witch!” Greathis slapped her across the face. “You would sate your appetite upon the souls of men—my men and any others that you can find? Why would you do such a thing?”

She spat a bit of blood onto the floor. “Andolis and Gustav told me that the teachings were a lie. They showed me the truth, and they promised that I could live forever, as they do.”

Greathis raised an eyebrow. “Live forever?”

“They’re Zyvdredi, you fool. The immortal enemies of the Uxidi, the truth seekers… the great ones.”

“I had my suspicions, and this confirms them,” Laedron said. “When I fought Gustav in Pilgrim’s Rest, he spoke the ancient language of Zyvdred.”

Marac gave Laedron a look of astonishment. “You knew, but you told no one?”

“I didn’t know at the time. I knew he was a mage by his use of the old spells, but I had no idea that he was actually Zyvdredi.”

“Do many people go around reciting ancient tongues in your presence?” Greathis asked.