Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

Maellas gave a nasty laugh. “Return to you? I didn’t even know you were here, old man. If I had, I would have come much sooner.”

“Such hatred is unbecoming in one of your position, my son. And unwarranted-in all the years since the Purge, you’ve not rid yourself of your ‘curse,’ despite the resources available to you. One has to ask, why is that?”

“Silence,” the Bishop snapped, pushing the point of his dagger deeper into Pater’s throat. Though he winced in pain as bright red blood welled up around the silver, the old werewolf did not stop.

“You claim to despise lycanthropes-and their descendants, the shifters-and profess to hate me for infecting you, but the truth is, you like being a werewolf. Being among the moontouched gives you strength and power you would never have known as the sickly, fragile priest I encountered in Shadukar, leaving the home of a shifter courtesan by the back way.”

“I said, silence!” Maellas roared, his skin rippling as he fought to control his rage and the transformation that so often accompanied it. He pulled the dagger away from Pater’s throat and with three quick, precise motions, sliced a crude rendition of the Flame into the old werewolf’s chest. As Pater moaned, Maellas laughed again.

“Hurts a bit more than you expected, doesn’t it? That’s because the blade’s been coated in belladonna extract, an interrogation method favored by dear Andri’s father. I’m surprised he didn’t use it on you-but, then, you didn’t put up much of a fight, did you? Played dead while he cut off your claws, and paid for it with your sight.”

Now Andri understood. It was common practice among the Purified who battled evil to sprinkle silver dust in the eyes of those they had slain, in order to prevent the dead from rising again. Since Pater had not actually been dead when his father had performed the ritual, the silver had burned the delicate flesh around the old werewolf’s eyes, blinding him.

But Maellas was wrong about Pater not fighting back-he’d used his claws to good effect before Alestair had brought him down, and it had been one of those wounds that had transferred the curse to his father. Just as, Andri now surmised, had happened to the elf Bishop himself, close to a century and a half ago.

But if Maellas had been able to conceal his true nature for that long, hiding in plain sight, knowing the Church would never look for a lycanthrope among their own ranks, then why was he risking exposure now? Why go on a killing spree in the very city he governed, endangering his position, and his life, if discovered? It didn’t make any sense.

And why was Maellas even doing this? He couldn’t reconcile the humble, pious priest who served Aruldusk so faithfully with this evil, mocking creature that obviously delighted in dealing pain.

Andri knew he didn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle yet, just as he knew he was running out of time to find them. Now that Maellas’s identity had been revealed, the odds of any of them surviving this encounter had just plummeted.

If Andri could just keep the Bishop talking, he might be able to maneuver into position or distract him from Irulan, who was the only other one here who had a weapon that could harm him. Though she would have to make her one silver-tipped arrow count. She wouldn’t get a second shot.

He took a step toward the two werewolves, careful to keep his sword pointed down. He wanted to look as innocuous as possible, but he’d seen Maellas’s speed. He didn’t dare sheathe the blade.

Maellas raised his own blade back to Pater’s throat. “That’s far enough, my boy.”

Andri stopped where he stood and held a hand up to show he wasn’t a threat.

“Very well, Your Excellency,” he said, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to appeal to the Bishop’s vanity. “You’ve clearly outwitted us, and I’m sure you’ve planned it so that none of us will live long enough to divulge your secret. But I have to know-why are you killing innocent people and framing shifters for their deaths?”

Maellas snorted. He wasn’t falling for it.

“I think I know,” Greddark offered from his place by the fire. As he spoke, he moved closer to Andri, casually stepping in front of Irulan and partially obscuring her from Maellas’s view. Andri hoped the shifter knew what to do with the cover she was being given.

The Bishop’s green eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak, merely tightening his grip on Pater, whose strength was failing rapidly. Whatever move they were going to make, Andri knew they had to make it soon.

He only wished he had some idea what that move would be.

“Your Bishop there is not just a priest. He’s also a wizard. One who came up with a nifty little concoction to hide his affliction from the world. Unfortunately, the key ingredient to that potion is the severed finger of another lycanthrope. And they’re a rather rare commodity in Thrane, present company excepted. In fact, I believe if you were to look in that pouch he’s carrying, you’d find a nice fresh supply of said digits, culled from old Quillion’s body. Enough to last him another fifty years, at least. Too bad he got greedy and decided to follow us here for more.”

Greddark glanced at Andri. “Did you ever wonder why your father brought you those claws? He’d never done that before, had he?”

The dwarf was right. Alestair had never been one to take trophies from his kills. Andri shook his head, beginning to suspect where Greddark’s train of thought was headed.

“My guess is Maellas here asked him for the werewolf’s hand, and your father misunderstood, bringing back the claws as proof that he’d killed the werewolf-which is what he thought the Bishop had hired him to do. He didn’t realize it was the fingers Maellas wanted, and when he didn’t get them, he told your father to keep the claws as a souvenir-what good were they to him?

“But something your father said must have tipped him off that there was more than just one werewolf lairing in these woods. There was no way Maellas could find them on his own-especially with their lair being in Lamannia-and he obviously couldn’t send anyone else to look for them, because look how that turned out. So if he couldn’t go after them, he was going to have to get them to come to him . And what better way to do that then to get rid of their supply line?”

Of course. The shifters of the Silver Circle.

“But what about his victims?” asked Andri. “Where do they fit into this?”

Greddark shrugged. “They were mostly Throneholders and critics-people he wanted to get rid of, anyway. He was just cleaving two skulls with one axe.”

Maellas sneered, making his disdain for the inquisitive’s deductive abilities clear.

“I do hope you’re not paying him too handsomely, Andri. You already know I asked your father to locate the lycanthrope rumor placed in the Burnt Woods-I’ve made no secret of it. But I certainly never asked him to try and kill dear Pater,” the Bishop said, looking at Andri as he ran the tip of his belladonna-laden blade along the old werewolf’s jaw line, leaving a bright trail of blood. “Alestair was simply supposed to bring him back to me for … questioning. But then your father decided to take matters into his own hands, and we all know the results of his arrogance, don’t we, Andri?”

Maellas’s expression was one of mingled pity and disgust.

“How many dead in Flamekeep? And your own poor mother, defiled by Alestair’s animal lusts. You had no choice but to kill her. The Flame only knows what monstrosity might have resulted from that foul union. And do you know why your father became a murderous, raging beast when the moon turned full, Andri, so different from the loving, generous man you knew? Because he took on the nature of the one who infected him.” Maellas held Pater up in front of him, the werewolf’s body dangling limply in his iron grip. “He is the reason your parents died, Andri, the cause of all the pain and guilt you’ve carried with you for so long. And now the Flame has brought him within your grasp, offering you the chance to take the vengeance you’ve always secretly desired.”