Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

“Be that as it may, you are safer behind locked doors. And there are a few House Kundarak charms I can use to make you even more secure, after I finish up at the Cathedral.”

“And how do you think you’re going to get into the Cathedral without me?”

Greddark blinked. “Walk in?”

“Nobody just walks into the Cathedral … at least, not if you aren’t a worshipper of the Silver Flame. They’d be politely escorting you out-probably by sword point-before you could figure out what direction to kneel in and which knee is supposed to go down first.”

The dwarf grunted. “Funny, I hadn’t pegged you as a Flamer.”

Zoden gave a sardonic laugh.

“I’m not. The only flame I find worthy of veneration is the one that cooks my food and warms my hearth. But I’ve lived in Thrane my whole life, and I know how to play the part. Do you?”

Damn. The silly git had a point.

“Fine. You can come with me, and I’ll follow your lead in the Cathedral, but once we get to where we’re going, I’ll do the talking. Understood?”

Zoden nodded, eager as a puppy to please now that he was getting his way.

“So who are we going to see?”

“Margil Ravadanci, the Bishop’s chief aide.”

Greddark had never actually been in a Silver Flame Cathedral before-it was rare enough for him to enter a temple dedicated to the Sovereign Host, and he believed in them. The building was just as garish as he’d imagined it would be, with marble pillars and silver statues and riotous colors battling for control across every visible pane of glass. The red carpet was so deep it was like a plush pudding, and he wondered if young children were ever frightened that it might try to eat them. He had to suppress a chuckle at the thought.

If the Cathedral was extravagant, it was nothing compared to the complicated rituals followers of the Flame practiced. After checking their weapons with a dwarf priest who hefted Greddark’s alchemy blade appreciatively, they walked through a colonnaded gallery toward the Cathedral’s huge double doors, flanked on either side by Knights of the Silver Flame whose armor and unsheathed swords had been polished to outshine the sun. Entering the narthex itself required two bows, a genuflection, and reverently kissing what he could only assume was a scaled-down rendition of the Silver Flame itself-though with Flamic art and architecture growing ever more abstract, he wouldn’t bet on it.

Once inside the nave, the entrance to which was guarded by another matched set of knights, the sanctuary opened up into a cavernous room with ceilings so high they were lost in the shadows. A huge mosaic stretched out across the floor, another stylized flame in its center, crafted of cleverly interlocking pieces of silver and mother-of-pearl. Above this rendition of the Flame, an actual silver fire burned in a silver brazier as large as a bath tub. The brazier hung suspended on a long, heavy chain that disappeared into the shadows above. Rows of pews, mostly empty at this time of day, were situated in concentric circles around this central fire. It was in one of these pews, toward the rear of the church, that Greddark spotted Margil. She sat alone, her head covered with a silvercloth veil. A casual observer might assume she had donned it out of respect. Greddark knew she wore the veil to hide her face and lips as she spoke.

He made his way casually over to the empty pew behind her and slid into place, after making yet another intricate obeisance at Zoden’s prodding. He hadn’t wanted to meet her here-it was dangerous, and increased the risk of her getting caught-but she was so busy with the fallout from the murders that she never left the Cathedral complex these days. Hence this charade.

He knelt with his hands resting on the back of the pew only a few inches from Margil’s veil.

“The bard’s your apprentice now?” Margil’s murmur had the same cadence and intonation of the prayer she was reciting. If Greddark hadn’t been expecting her words, he would have missed them.

“More like my stray,” Greddark said into his beard, his head bowed. Zoden, a foot away, didn’t react. Their voices weren’t carrying that far.

“I have what you want, but you’re not the only one looking for it. A paladin from Flamekeep-supposedly sent by Cardinal Riathan, though I suspect the Keeper’s hand behind his. And a shifter woman. Her brother is in custody now-for killing your stray’s twin.”

Now that was interesting.

“What about the Bishop? Any reason to suspect him of setting these shifters up?”

“He doesn’t like shifters, I know that much,” Margil said after a moment’s thought-no doubt choosing her words with care. “Truth be told, I don’t like them much, either. But disliking them is a far cry from framing them for murder. And if you’re casting your eyes in that direction, you might be better served looking at Ancillary Bishop Xanin. He hates everyone. Except, possibly, Bishop Maellas.”

Was that … jealousy? Interesting. He’d done a little research while he and ir’Marktaros were cooling their heels in Sigilstar, and he knew Xanin was relatively new to the city, having arrived a little over a year ago. Apparently Margil didn’t like being replaced as Maellas’s second-in-command. Greddark filed the information away for future reference, but decided not to press the matter. It didn’t do to anger your contacts-at least not if you were planning on using them again, and Margil had proven quite helpful over the years.

“Thanks, Gil. I’ll have the usual amount deposited in your account.”

The aide said nothing, merely rose from her place and exited the pew. She had left a thick book on the seat behind her. The Prayers of Tira Miron , translated from the Draconic.

Greddark stayed on his knees for another quarter bell before rising. As he used the pew back to lever himself up, he reached down with his other hand to grab the book. With it tucked firmly under his arm, he and Zoden made their own exit from the Cathedral, bowing and scraping at all the necessary intervals as they went.

Greddark waited to look at the book until they were well-ensconced in Zoden’s home, behind locked doors that the dwarf had enhanced with a few House Kundarak tricks. As he opened the thick tome, he found several loose sheets inserted, ironically, in the section on prayers for justice. The first sheet was a list of victims, in chronological order. There were twenty in all, beginning with Mikal Irvallo and ending with the most recent victim, Demodir Imaradi.

“See?” Zoden said, reading over his shoulder. “It’s just like I told Diani.”

“What is?”

“Most of them are Throneholders-or were, I guess.” He paused for a moment, clearly uncomfortable with the past tense, then hurried on. “Zodal, of course, but also Ravan, ir’Sarhain, Neskadus and now Imaradi. Arrun ir’Sarhain was the one who got me my first job with the loyalists. These others … hmm. Krayci wrote for the Aruldusk Archives . I remember he wrote a chronicle about a year ago criticizing Bishop Maellas for disallowing shifter marriages outside of the Cathedral. Said Maellas was wrong for requiring shifters to change their traditional outdoor marriage rites just because they’d embraced the Silver Flame. I believe he was sanctioned for the chronicle. He might even have lost his job over it. And this one, ir’Vanatar-his father is known for holding grand galas to raise money for the Crown.”

The bard looked at him, as if expecting some sort of praise for his observations. When none was forthcoming, he frowned.

“Well? Don’t you think it’s rather strange that, in a city full of Flamers, at least a quarter of the murder victims were either loyal to Queen Diani or openly critical of the theocracy? I mean, what are the odds?”