Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

He grunted, not bothering to look up at her as he finished his sketch and bent to retrieve the ruined bolts. He examined the quarrels of each before shoving them into his sack and scribbling more notes. She was just beginning to think he was ignoring her when he answered.

“More than you can afford.”

“Probably. But is it more than he can?” She pointed to Andri, who was rising from his spot on the bench next to ir’Marktaros’s neighbor.

That got the dwarf’s attention. He looked where she indicated, assessing the paladin’s fine armor and heirloom silver sword. Then he looked back at her, and she couldn’t miss the calculating glitter in his eye.

“You want to hire me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I think you have information I need, and I doubt I’m going to get it without paying for it. Besides, it looks like you’re out of a job, so … what do you say? Same rate as ir’Marktaros paid you. Deal?”

The dwarf regarded her outstretched hand for only a moment before reaching out to shake it.

“Deal.”

Irulan went to inform Andri about their new partner as d’Kundarak continued on into the house to look for more clues and gather whatever belongings he might have left there. As she approached the paladin, she saw he was in a heated discussion with an old priestess who wore the blue and yellow of the Sovereign Host. The robes hung off her gaunt frame, and her weathered skin and graying hair suggested a frailty belied by her angry expression.

“… and I’m telling you,” Andri was saying, “that I’ve been given the authority to override the prohibition against necromancy, by the Cardinals themselves.”

The woman spat on the ground. “I don’t give a damn about your letter,” she said. “I live here, in Aruldusk, where Maellas is the law. He has issued an edict that no one is to attempt to revive the murder victims, even those few of us who have a legitimate right to use such spells. If I go against him to do this for you, I might as well join this boy in his grave. The only reason I’m even here is because Zoden was one of ours, and I’ll not see you Flamers burn his body before his mother even gets to say her goodbyes.”

“If the Bishop attempts to have you punished for following my orders, the Keeper herself will have him censured.”

The priestess laughed. “Lot of good that will do me when I’m dead.”

Irulan could see that Andri was getting frustrated with the woman’s cynicism. If the paladin had summoned a priestess of the Host, knowing what Maellas’s reaction was going to be, he must believe it was the only way to get the answers they needed. But the Bishop had to be on his way here already. If they were going to do this, it had to be now.

“Excuse me, Old Mother,” she said. It was a shifter honorific for the wise women of their tribes, and she knew the priestess would recognize it, for she wore Balinor’s symbol about her neck-twin antlers, one brown and one red.

The priestess turned, her demeanor relaxing somewhat. She no doubt thought Irulan was a follower of the Host like herself.

“Yes, daughter? How can I help you?”

“It’s really a question of how we can help you,” Irulan replied, wondering how Andri was going to react to her next words. She just hoped he’d hold his anger in check until after the priestess had done her work.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

Irulan had seen Aruldusk’s small temple dedicated to the Host. Like the Garden District, it was a holdout for people who refused to give in to the Flame. And, as such, it was in a state of continual disrepair-the offerings of its poor worshippers were not nearly enough to pay for the building’s upkeep. She’d yet to meet a cleric who wouldn’t appreciate a large contribution, especially with a crumbling temple and a dwindling congregation. If this priestess wouldn’t help them in the name of the Silver Flame, she’d certainly do it in the name of the silver sovereign.

“We know that the Host has fallen on hard times in Aruldusk, with few worshippers and even fewer offerings. We’re prepared to make a sizeable … donation to the temple in exchange for your questioning the bard.”

Luckily, the woman was looking at her, and so didn’t see Andri’s expression.

“Are you trying to bribe me, daughter?” the priestess asked, her tone soft and dangerous.

“Of course not, Old Mother,” Irulan replied with a smile that showed the sharp tips of her teeth. “We merely want you to know we recognize the value of your service to the community.”

“Oh? And what would you say my service is worth?”

Irulan risked a quick glance at Andri, willing him not to erupt. She’d seen how much money he carried on him, over and above what he had access to through the Cardinal’s letter. The figure she had in mind shouldn’t set him back much.

She hoped.

“Five platinum dragons?”

She wasn’t sure who spluttered loudest, the priestess or Andri.

The priestess regained her composure first and turned back to Andri with a swish of gold and sapphire.

“That’s a lot of money,” she said, clearly tempted. “Is it worth that much to you, paladin?”

Andri spoke through clenched teeth, though the look he gave Irulan was murderous. “It is.”

“Very well, then. I will do this, to help bring Zoden’s murderer to justice, but I must have your word that you will accept the responsibility for violating Maellas’s edict.”

“Done.” With another angry look at Irulan, Andri reached toward his belt.

“Wait.” Irulan moved to interpose herself between the paladin and the crowd. Though they were far enough away from the throng that they didn’t need to worry that their conversation might be overheard, fishing in one’s pouch for coins was a universal gesture that didn’t require words to be interpreted. It was bad enough that they were going to defy the ban on necromancy, but if they were seen paying for it by half the citizens of Aruldusk, not even Jaela Daran would be able to save them.

When she was sure the exchange couldn’t be seen, she nodded to Andri to continue. He dug the dragons out and offered them to the priestess, who turned the silvery coins over reverently a few times before pocketing them. Irulan wondered if the other woman had ever held that much money before. Irulan certainly never had, and likely never would, unless Andri decided to make her pay him back.

Which he probably would do once he found out she’d also hired the dwarf with his money. That, or string her up. Either way, it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

The priestess knelt beside Zoden’s corpse, pulling the scarlet cloak back to his waist. She drew a vial of dark red liquid from within her robes and drew a simplified skull on his lips, throat, and chest. Irulan was startled to realize it was a symbol of the Keeper, part of the Sovereign Host’s dark pantheon and the lord of death and decay. The priestess began a low chant in a language Irulan didn’t recognize, making arcane passes over the bard’s body. As the woman’s hands glowed faintly with a dark light, Irulan wondered just which one of the Sovereign gods this priestess actually worshipped. But then Zoden’s eyes snapped open and he drew a harsh, gasping breath, and Irulan took an involuntary step back. Her own aversion was echoed distantly by low murmuring from the crowd.

“Quickly,” the priestess said, gritting her teeth with the effort of the spell. “Ask your questions, but carefully. He will take everything you say literally and will respond in kind.”

“Zoden ir’Marktaros,” Andri said, his tone both solemn and full of distaste. “Tell me what happened to you.”