Mark Del Franco - Unperfect Souls

She glared at him. “You ‘must’ nothing, Bastian. I told you to remain silent. Brokke, ask your questions before I change my mind.”

The dwarf slipped off his seat and bowed. “As you wish, Your Royal Highness.” He moved closer to the table, removing his glasses again. “I advise the king, druid. His Royal Majesty is concerned that I could not discern the recent events in your city. You are the common connection to all of them.”

Dwarves had the ability to see into the future by scrying, which involved infusing water with spells. The talent wasn’t exact, more a sensitivity to likely outcomes. The future changed as events progressed. Some people thought they could influence coming events by knowing the possibilities. I didn’t doubt they could nudge a thing or two, but no one I knew ever truly predicted the future. “Is that a question?” I asked.

He pursed his lips. “Are you a diviner, Druid Grey?”

Druids and dwarves had a long-running pissing contest when it came to who predicted the future more accurately. When we were being honest, the ability seemed to be roughly equivalent between the two. Of course, no druid or dwarf admitted that to the other. “I once had some talent for scrying and trance. No longer.”

“Have you tried?”

My impulse was to tell him to mind his own business, but my ability problems had become common knowledge. Given that he was in the same room as the Elven King’s master spy, he probably already knew the answer anyway. “Not in two years. The last time was just after my . . . accident . . . when I lost my abilities. I ended up unconscious for a day and a half.”

Despite losing my abilities in the duel with Vize, my essence-sensing ability had gone off the charts. Every time I thought it couldn’t get any more acute, it did. Brokke was using his own sensing ability to examine me. It was subtle, even delicate, and not typical of the skill of dwarves. I imagined he didn’t become a king’s advisor because he had average talent.

“How damaged are your abilities?” he asked.

Just because he knew more about my situation than he probably let on didn’t mean I had to make things easier for him. “Why do you want to know?” I asked.

He started to speak, then clenched his jaw. I had a feeling Brokke was not used to being questioned. “A druid with damaged abilities can be a dangerous thing.”

“You could say the same thing of an elf. How’s Vize these days?”

Brokke narrowed his eyes. A sending fluttered through the room. Old Ones—the fey who lived in Faerie before Convergence like Eorla, Bastian, and Brokke—didn’t normally show evidence of using sendings. I had no idea who had spoken to whom, but Brokke seemed to be one end of the conversation.

Frye shifted his staff into the crook of his arm. “Druid Grey, the Elven King is very concerned about your involvement in the recent catastrophes in this city. His Highness is not pleased that his people are being implicated as well. You invite more scrutiny by your reticence.”

I frowned. “So, just to be clear here, should I be taking that as some kind of threat?”

Eorla made a show of tilting her head toward Frye as if she wondered, too.

“I mean only that you might find yourself answering questions you may not care to,” he said. “The Elven King is not the only one concerned. Should you find yourself in particular difficulties, I am authorized to assist you.”

I fought off a look of surprise. I still didn’t know if I was being threatened. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Eorla waved her hand dismissively. “Enough. I wish to speak to Mr. Grey alone. I will send for you when I am done.”

“I do not think it wise to remain alone with this druid,” Frye said.

Eorla arched an eyebrow. “For me or for you?” Frye compressed his lips rather than answer. “You are dismissed. Both of you.”

They bowed and moved down the length of the table.

“Bastian?” Eorla said. She held up a fist, palm toward him when he paused. With an abrupt opening of her hand, she muttered a short phrase in Old Elvish. Bright green motes of essence shot from her fingers and shattered two ceramic urns to either side of the fireplace. “In the future, Bastian, I suggest you think again before you tune listening wards to eavesdrop on my conversations.”

Frye did not meet her gaze but bowed. As he followed Brokke out of the room, Eorla called his name again. “That urn by the door, Bastian? Take it with you and strip the listening ward from it. I rather like that one and would prefer not to destroy it.”

Frye removed the urn in question from the bookcase by the door. He held it against his chest, bowed to Eorla, and backed out of the room. Eorla chuckled. “He tries my patience.”

I smiled. “Something tells me you try his a little bit.”

She smiled back. “I hope so.”

“Why are you telling me about Vize? You know I want him in prison,” I said.

She shifted in her seat. “Bastian and Brokke want me to meet with him, but I won’t. It irritates them that I spoke to you instead.”

“Where is Vize?” I asked.

Eorla arched an eyebrow. “I truly don’t know. Bergin isn’t why I asked to see you. I have been having dreams about Forest Hills. I want to know if you have, too.”

Forest Hills was one of those lovely catastrophes Bastian Frye referred to. A spell created to control essence got out of hand. Eorla and Nigel Martin tried to stop it, but it overwhelmed them. I did stop it, but I couldn’t remember how. “I don’t remember any of it.”

“You remember the staff that was used, don’t you? And the runes that were bound to it?” she asked.

I nodded. “That I remember. I saw it before I did whatever I did. The staff held the essence of the oak, and Teutonic runes were bound to it. I don’t know what they meant, though.”

She gestured to some paper on the table. “Can you show me the runes you remember?”

The spell had damaged essence and produced what everyone called the Taint. The Taint provoked highly aggressive behavior in anyone who touched it. I hesitated as I picked up a pen. I liked Eorla well enough, but we had been uneasy allies at best. I wasn’t sure piecing together a dangerously powerful control spell was in anyone’s best interest—and helping the Consortium do it could be trouble. Then again, I had never been more angry with High Queen Maeve, so if something I did caused her a problem, I wouldn’t be all that upset. I wrote on the paper and slid it to Eorla. “I remember these four the most. They were floating and revolving around the staff. I’m not sure of their order. I didn’t focus on them. ”

Eorla added more runes. “I remembered three and dreamed two more. We have some overlap.”

I studied the five new runes. “I don’t know many elven rune spells.”

“It intrigues me that a Celtic staff and Teutonic runes worked together,” she said.

I shrugged. “It’s just a means to an end, isn’t it? Essence is the same either way.”

She stared at the runes. “True. Something ancient teases at my memory—a spell I might have seen long ago.”

“Why the interest, Eorla?”

She folded the paper and held it on her lap. “A Guild initiative, actually. The Taint still plagues the city. We’re hoping to undo the damage.”

I sighed. “Good luck. The only person who seems to be unaffected is me, and that’s because of the dark spot in my head.” Our eyes met in the silence. “Unless you know someone else in a similar situation.”

She shook her head. “I haven’t spoke to Bergin since before the two of you fought. I have no idea if the Taint does or does not affect him.”

I leaned my elbows against the table. “If it’s a Guild initiative, why the secrecy?”