Gail Martin - The Sworn

Exeter had gone pale. “No. No, I believe you.” He took a shaky breath and pulled himself together. “I believe.” He was quiet for a moment, and then he looked up at the others. “Gentlemen, we have a very large problem.”

It was third bells before Jonmarc and the others returned to the palace. Come morning, Hant and Valjan would take the news to the other generals, hiding Aidane’s identity as the source. Exeter also vowed to have his mercs among the feast day crowds, watching for signs of danger amid the throng. Gellyr had delivered the letters of introduction Sister Taru sent with them, and Jonmarc fervently hoped that there would be some word awaiting him back at the palace. They were too tired to sleep, and too exhausted to function, but they headed back to the palace knowing that they had done everything possible to guard against the Durim’s attack.

“That went reasonably well,” Gellyr remarked.

Jonmarc sighed. “Considering that they didn’t throw us out, laugh in our faces, or pack us off to the madhouse, yeah, I’d say so.”

“Tomorrow, once I’ve rested, I’ll see what the spirits can tell me,” Aidane said quietly.

Jonmarc gave her a sideways glance. “Can you do that? I mean, with Thaine already in there?”

“Being possessed by more than one spirit at a time isn’t comfortable, but I’ve done it before.” A shadow crossed her face, giving Jonmarc the idea that “not comfortable” was an understatement. “What choice do we have? If the Black Robes are in the city, then they may have done some killing. Their victims might want revenge.” Her eyes became distant. “So many ghosts, calling. Oh, yes. Fresh kills.” She began to shake her head. “Buka. Buka.”

Gellyr came to a dead stop, with a look of horror on his face. “Buka,” he whispered.

Jonmarc looked at him warily. “What did you say?”

Gellyr shook his head as if to clear it. “Sweet Chenne, I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. What Aidane just said about the Durim killing here in the city. She’s right.”

They were nearly at the palace walls. Gellyr indicated for them to get inside the palace before he finished. “I’d had some word of it before we came back to Principality City, from the couriers who came to Jannistorp, and the letters my men got from home. There’s a murderer loose in Principality City. He’s a slippery one. I’m ashamed to say it, but since he tends to prey on cutpurses, drunks, and the absinthe strumpets, it hasn’t gotten an all-out manhunt. They call him Buka. It’s a lowlands term for ‘slayer.’ ” Gellyr shook his head. “He’s a butcher, that’s what he is. Make a career in the ranks, and you see a few of that type. I thought he was just a madman. But now-”

“Either it’s an amazing coincidence, or he’s working with the Black Robes,” Jonmarc finished. “Maybe even part of the Durim themselves.”

Aidane’s eyes were haunted. “We knew that kind in Nargi. Not long before I was captured, there was a killer loose there as well. I lived among those cutpurses, drunks, and absinthe trollops,” she said, quietly reproachful. “Sometimes the whole bodies would show up; other times, only pieces.” She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “No one looks too hard when they think the killer is only hunting vermin.” Her voice was soft, but there was a note of hurt in it, and the last word stung.

Gellyr swallowed hard. “Apologies, m’lady. ’Tis too easy, sometimes, to forget that the victims were people.” He took a deep breath. “I knew about the problems in Dark Haven, but I never put the two together.” He shook his head. “I know we’re running out of time, but we all need to get some sleep if we’re to fight tomorrow. If Aidane can manage it, I’d like to find out anything we can from Buka’s victims. It may give us a clue about the Durim’s plans for the festival, or at least we might get a break in trying to catch the bastard.”

“I’ll help if I can,” Aidane said. Jonmarc could hear the strain in her voice. He knew from the time he’d spent with Tris Drayke how much of a toll magic took, and while Aidane’s gift might be slightly different, he bet it came with a cost.

“We’re no good to anyone if we’re too tired to move,” Jonmarc said. “Let’s get some sleep.”

The next morning, Jencin knocked on Jonmarc’s door. “You’ve got visitors.”

Jonmarc dressed quickly and stepped into the hallway, where Gellyr was just closing the door to his room. He looked at Gellyr, who shrugged. “I’m not expecting anyone,” Gellyr said. “Are you?”

“Who are they?” Jonmarc asked as Jencin walked with them down the corridor.

“Mages, by the look of them. Said you’d called for them.” His tone clearly gave Jonmarc to know that a warning would have been appreciated.

“Sorry for not mentioning it, but I had no idea they’d show up this quickly,” Jonmarc said. He glanced at Gellyr. “Looks like your messages got through.”

Jonmarc followed Jencin into a parlor off the main corridor. He was surprised to see a dozen people waiting for him. Some of them dozed in chairs or on the floor, while others looked up from where they had been talking in low tones. All wore mage robes. One of the men rose and started toward the door to greet them. He looked to be in his third decade, with reddish-blond hair that fell to his shoulders. His eyebrows were almost white, and he was clean-shaven.

“Lord Vahanian?” The mage looked from Jonmarc to Gellyr.

“Are you Rigel?”

The mage smiled. “I see Taru mentioned me. She’s well, I hope?”

Jonmarc nodded. “Very well. I’ll give her your greeting. You’ve brought friends?”

Rigel swept his arm in a gesture to include the others in the room. “Landis wouldn’t approve of our being here. Some of us have already left the Sisterhood; others were planning to do so sooner rather than later. We don’t agree with Landis’s notion that mages should lock themselves in a tower and refuse to use their magic to help.”

“I never thought I’d be so happy to see a room full of mages, but you’re a welcome sight,” Jonmarc said. Two servants entered the room, bearing trays of bread, cheese, and sausage and a large kettle of kerif. One of the servants brought Jonmarc a cup of kerif, and Gellyr also accepted one. They sat down as the mages grouped themselves into a circle. Rigel made introductions, but Jonmarc was tired enough that the names didn’t stick in his mind. He paid attention to the color of their robes. Rigel’s robes were light blue, and he remembered that Taru said that Rigel was an air mage. Not quite the powers of a summoner, but magic that was closer than any other type. He spotted a couple of green robes, indicating healers. Nice to have in a fight. Light brown robes usually meant a land mage. There were three of them. Tired as he was, Jonmarc began to smile when he saw six mages with dark blue robes. Water mages would come in handy if they faced an enemy from across the Northern Sea. The twelfth man wore red robes, and Jonmarc frowned. Fire mages were trouble.

Rigel seemed to follow his gaze, and guessed his thinking. “That’s Tevin. He’s a fire mage.”

Jonmarc’s eyes narrowed. “The last fire mage I met was Foor Arontala. It wasn’t a good experience.”

Tevin seemed to wince at the name. He was very pale, with lank, straw-blond hair. He might have been anywhere from seventeen to just under thirty. Jonmarc bet he was older than he looked. Tevin didn’t look up, and he spoke just above a whisper. “We’re not all like that. We choose what we are.” His voice was quiet, but when he looked up to meet Jonmarc’s gaze, Tevin’s eyes were determined. Jonmarc guessed that he wasn’t the first to question Tevin’s integrity, or the first to suspect a fire mage’s motives.