Child of the Flames (The Seven Signs Book 1) Page 8

  “I’m not going to steal it, D’Jenn.” Dormael snorted. “Besides, you’re not listening. This thing—this magical item—it’s not like anything I’ve felt before. You know I’m not some child in his First Four. I wouldn’t come to you with something stupid.”

  “That prescription against stealing doesn’t apply to a Blessed exercising his duties,” D’Jenn grumbled. “If it was a fat old man in trouble, would this be such a pressing issue?”

  “Yes, gods-damn it. Don’t you trust me?”

  “Against all the evidence my relationship with you has provided, I do.” D’Jenn sighed. “Fine. Tell me where you are.”

  “I’m staying with her kinsman, a man named Alton Dersham. He’s a good sort of fellow—and a rich sort, too. He’s prepared a bed for you.”

  “Very well. I should be in the city by this evening.” D’Jenn tapped his pipe on the log and stood. “Hopefully we can take care of this soon and be off to Tauravon before the gods return to Eldath.”

  “Stop being such a grouse. You know we can’t leave something like this behind us. If Victus—or the Mekai, for that matter—found out, we’d be punished for it.”

  D’Jenn smirked. “You’d be punished for it. This is your problem, I was just passing through on my way to Tauravon.”

  Dormael chuckled. “I’m in the Merchant’s District, in Ferolan. The Dersham manor.”

  “I guess I’ll be seeing you this evening, then,” D’Jenn said. “I hope to the gods this doesn’t take all winter.”

  “Thanks, D’Jenn.” Dormael let his illusory form fade with his last words. “See you in Ferolan.”

  D’Jenn waved, grumbling under his breath, and Dormael left him on the road. He hurtled back toward Ferolan, where his body stood in Alton’s window. He could feel hunger growing along the tenuous thread connecting his consciousness to his physical form, and by the position of the sun, there was probably still time to catch breakfast in the kitchens.

  He did, however, do more barrel rolls on the way.

  ***

  Alton placed a black stone on the board, blowing out a slow trickle of tobacco smoke as he straightened. He narrowed his eyes at Dormael and schooled his features to stillness, but his anticipation was clear. The waning sunlight coming through the window cast red shafts of light through the smoke hovering in the room, and Dormael peered through it at Alton’s bland expression.

  “You’re not very good at hiding your emotions.” Dormael placed a white piece to block Alton’s intended goal. It wasn’t the move he’d tried to bait Dormael into making, and Alton grimaced at the board. Dormael regarded him with a smile.

  “I haven’t had much practice.” Alton placed another stone. “It’s hard to find people amongst the staff who would sit and play the master of the house at stones. For that matter, it’s hard to find anyone amongst the staff who plays stones in the first place.”

  “You could invite the noble Baronet Keeting over for a game.” Dormael smirked as he placed another stone on the board. “He certainly concerns himself with gentlemanly pursuits.”

  “He’s well educated on the taste of his own ass, maybe.” Alton smiled. “Most of the gentry are like him—social climbers obsessed with their own status. I don’t get along with most of them, and they don’t get along with me. You saw what happened today.”

  Dormeal took a pull from his pipe. “I saw, and I appreciate your taking up for me. Seems like it’s going to affect you, though.”

  “Not as much as you may think,” Alton said. “My family is low nobility. I’m a Baronet as well, you know. The lowliest of the highborn in Cambrell.”

  Dormael looked around the study, taking in the rich wood and wealth of books. “Apparently that didn’t hold you back.”

  Alton laughed. “No, not particularly. My father valued two things—business and education. Other families thought business was the trade of the merchant class, but my father didn’t care for their nattering. He taught me about trade, and made sure I had my nose in books from sunup to sundown, at least when I wasn’t learning the gentleman’s arts.”

  “Gentleman’s arts?”

  “The sword, the horse, the bow. Etiquette, honor, and the religious traditions. You know—all the basic rubbish society crams down your throat.”

  “Your society, maybe.” Dormael smiled. “My own father—he values education, too. He made damn sure I learned three things—the spear, my letters, and the guitar.”

  “That’s a strange mix of skills.”

  “Aye. My father said a man always needs to learn to defend himself—hence, the spear. He said that idiots die quickest, so the reading.”

  “And the guitar?”

  “The guitar has been in our family for a long time—music in general has.” Dormael smiled as he recalled memories from his childhood. “It’s my father’s greatest love. We used to sit outside during the high summer and play until the sun fell below the hills.”

  “He didn’t have a witty reason for the music?” Alton dropped another piece on the board.

  “Beauty,” Dormael replied. “He used to say I’d never appreciate anything without the ability to know and create something beautiful.”

  “He’s still alive, then?”

  “Aye. Still puttering around my family’s homestead.” Dormael dropped another piece.

  “My parents both died during the plague.” Alton sighed. “As much as the old man used to grill me, I sometimes wish he was still around. You never realize how much you love them until they’re gone, right?”

  “I suppose.” Dormael sank into his thoughts as Alton examined the board. He had been taken from his family at a young age when it was discovered he was Blessed. Dormael’s father had been a spearman in the Clan militia before taking up smithing, and he’d wanted Dormael to follow in his footsteps. Dormael could still remember the disappointment on the old man’s face the day the Conclave Scout had come to their homestead.

  “What happened after you left home? It must be quite the story to have brought you so far.” Alton dropped another piece on the board and looked up. “Tell me, and don’t be so vague this time. You have a gift for that, you know—using a lot of words to say nothing at all.”

  Dormael shrugged and looked over the board. “There’s not much to tell, really.”

  “Rubbish.” Alton fixed Dormael with a piercing look. “Did your father give you the guitar? It’s a fine piece, and rare. I know plenty of noblemen who don’t own anything that nice. It must have been expensive.”

  “Very expensive.”

  “So?”

  “So, what?”

  Alton narrowed his eyes. “Where did you get it?”

  Dormael leaned over the stones board, taking a long moment to contemplate his next move.

  “If you must know, my brother is a gladiator back home. You’ve heard of the Gladiator’s Ring in Tept? It’s in the western part of the Sevenlands.”

  Alton nodded. “I’ve heard of it.”

  “My brother fights in the tournaments—not the religious festivals.” Dormael held up a hand to forestall any questions. “I know what people probably say, but the Teptians only kill each other for their religious festivals. Anyone can fight in the tournaments, and my brother’s won a few champion’s purses. He bought me the guitar with some of his winnings.”

  It wasn’t true—the guitar had been a gift, but it had come from a Lesmiran merchant who had needed help tracking down his daughter. She was a wizard who’d been abducted by the Cult of Aeglar, and the top magical authority in Lesmira—the Mage Tower—wasn’t a martial institution. They had appealed to the Conclave in the Sevenlands for help, and Dormael had been the one to find her. The guitar was his geture of thanks, but Dormael couldn’t reveal any of that to Alton.

  Alton seemed an honorable man, and he hadn’t voiced any prejudice where magic was concerned. Shawna’s swords were clearly infused, and he hadn’t commented on them, but that didn’t mean he’d tolerate a wizard under his roof. The Conc
lave of Wizards had earned a great deal of historical enmity from the people of Alderak, and as a result, magic was barely tolerated in most countries, where it wasn’t outright illegal.

  I hate lying to him, but I can’t take the chance he wouldn’t report me to the authorities.

  Dormael dropped his next piece on the board and leaned back in his chair.

  “Your brother won a champion’s purse at the Gladiator’s Ring?” Alton raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes.” That much, at least, was true. “He’s won three, in fact.”

  Alton chuckled. “If you say so. It sounds far-fetched to me, but you can keep those secrets if you wish.”

  Dormael smiled as Alton dropped another piece on the board. “You don’t believe me?”

  “I’m not sure what to believe.” Alton grimaced when Dormael dropped his piece and gestured at it in frustration. “How did you do that? I can’t claim any more territory without losing half my pieces.”

  Dormael winked. “I’m well educated in gentleman’s pursuits.”

  There was a knock at the door, drawing Alton’s attention.

  “Come!”

  Lyssa poked her head into the room, shooting Dormael a quick glance before bowing at the waist. “There is someone at the gate, My Lord. He says you are expecting him. His name is Jenn.”

  “D’Jenn,” Dormael corrected. “That would be my cousin.”

  “My Lord?” The young lady looked back to Alton.

  “Show him in, Lyssa. Nan should have prepared him a room. She will know where to put him.” Alton glanced at Dormael. “When you’ve quartered him, bring us up some ale and show him to my study.”

  “Yes, My Lord.” Lyssa gave a short curtsy a disappeared through the door.

  D’Jenn appeared a short time later, tromping in through the door as Lyssa opened it for him. He had doffed his heavy cloak and dropped his packs, but the dirt from the road was still dusted over his clothing. He wore a mesavai much like Dormael’s, though it was black with red hems. D’Jenn was partial to the dark color, and his pants and undershirt were just as dark as his mesavai.

  D’Jenn winked at Dormael and turned to Alton. He gave a respectful nod and balled his fist over his heart, bowing at the waist. Alton stumbled over returning the traditional greeting, shrugging his ignorance as he rose from the bow.

  “Dormael has not explained this Sevenlander custom to me.” Alton threw Dormael a mildly irritated glance.

  “Things were a little tense when we met.” Dormael shrugged.

  D’Jenn nodded. “I would think he would have told you what it meant, but no matter. I will explain if you want to know. I’m D’Jenn, by the way. D’Jenn Pike, of the Red Hills of Soirus-Gamerit.”

  “I’m always up for learning something.” Alton smiled. “Alton Dersham, Seat of House Dersham. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Lyssa muttered an apology and deposited a pitcher of ale on the table. Alton held up a hand as Lyssa poured three cups from the pitcher and handed them out. She hurried back through the door and pulled it quietly shut in her wake.

  D’Jenn smiled and raised his cup. “Well, that’s a proper greeting if I’ve ever seen one. To health.”

  “To health.” Dormael and Alton repeated the toast, and three of them settled into chairs around the table. Dormael pulled out his pipe and offered some of his tobacco to Alton, who accepted with a nod. D’Jenn packed his own bowl, and waited to speak until the pipes were lit.

  “The bow,” D’jenn said, “is used for strangers meeting each other for the first time, or for acquaintances meeting after a long absence. The right hand is considered the hand of violence in our homeland and placing it just so—” He balled his fist over his heart. “—demonstrates you mean the other person no ill will. It’s an agreement to nonviolence. There are, of course, other greetings for close family, or even greetings for enemies. If you ever meet a Sevenlander who does not offer you the bow when you meet them, they don’t trust you.”

  Dormael smiled. “Now you’ve got two Sevenlanders in your home, Alton. Baronet Keeting would have a seizure.”

  “Baronet Keeting probably would, and it would leave Ferolan a better place if he did.” Alton snorted and shook his head. “Don’t remind me of him.”

  D’Jenn glanced between them. “I must be missing something.”

  “Don’t worry about it, your cousin is just trying to tweak my nose.” Alton waved a dismissive hand in Dormael’s direction. “I trust the road was good to you, D’Jenn?”

  “It was.” D’Jenn nodded. “Cambrell is pretty serious about keeping the peace on her roadways. I didn’t run into any trouble.”

  “Good to hear.” Alton sighed. “Trouble seems to be going around.”

  D’Jenn nodded. “So I’ve heard. How is the girl? Shawna is her name?”

  Alton gave D’Jenn a suspicious look. “Still fighting the infection from her wound. How did you know?”

  Dormael cleared his throat. “I sent a message for him. To the place we’d planned to meet.”

  D’Jenn nodded when Alton looked to him for confirmation.

  “I see.” Alton furrowed his brows and looked at Dormael. “I thought you were concerned for secrecy. Your advice to me urged it, as I remember.”

  “I was careful,” Dormael said. “I told you, Alton—I trust D’Jenn. He can help us, and he can help Shawna.”

  Alton glanced between them with suspicion, but he gave a grudging nod.

  “Secrecy is probably the right call.” D’Jenn sat forward in his chair. “Dormael skimped on the details of the story, though. Particularly who Shawna is and why someone would want her dead.”

  D’Jenn shot Dormael a weighted glance, and Dormael could imagine his cousin’s unspoken question—Why are you hanging around here looking into this?

  Alton let out a deep sigh. “The Llewans are minor nobility. Shawna’s father is from an ancient line, but his barony is a small stretch of land on the outskirts of the kingdom. It doesn’t produce much of value, and it holds no tactical advantage—not that anyone in Cambrell would care. Dolland had to make his money in horsetrading, despite his wife being cousin to the King.”

  D’Jenn raised his eyebrows. “If Shawna’s related to the royal line of Cambrell, she might have a bit of Sevenlander blood—Soirus-Gamerit, in fact. The Kings of Cambrell married Sevenlanders into their house before the Second Great War. It was part of the same treaty that built the Mage Tower in Lesmira.”

  Dormael rolled his eyes. “My cousin likes to point out useless things. I might have mentioned he was well educated.”

  D’Jenn scowled at him.

  “I enjoy useless facts.” Alton gave D’Jenn an apologetic smile. “Anyway, Shawna’s father made good money trading horses. Llewan horses are highly prized by the nobility in Cambrell, and I’m sure he’s sold some to buyers outside the kingdom. The horse market is anything but cut-throat, though, and the Llewans weren’t among the wealthiest noble houses. I’ve thought long and hard, but I can’t think of anyone of whom Dolland could have made an enemy.”

  “It’s hard to derive any reason someone would want Shawna dead from that,” D’Jenn said. “She was alone on the road?”

  Dormael nodded. “She was running from something.”

  “Banditry?” D’Jenn raised an eyebrow and glanced between Dormael and Alton.

  “It’s possible, but I doubt it.” Alton shrugged. “Her father’s barony is quiet. The King’s men patrol it regularly, and there are no major trade routes running through it. There are barely three villages under Dolland’s rule, and they don’t produce anything of note. There’s little to attract a group of thieves.”

  D’Jenn stroked his chin. “Has anyone thought to send a pigeon to her home? It would’ve been the first thing I’d have done.”

  “I sent some of my men to investigate their hold.” Alton gave them a serious look. “They haven’t returned.”

  “That was days ago.” Dormael furrowed his brows. “I’ve been wo
ndering if you’d heard anything, but you hadn’t mentioned it.”

  Alton smirked. “There’s much you haven’t shared as well, my friend.”

  Dormael shrugged and raised his glass in acknowledgment.

  “If it wasn’t a political attack, and you don’t think it’s banditry, then we must be missing something.” D’Jenn raised an eyebrow at Dormael. “We need more information.”

  “There is something I’ve wanted to show you. A moment, if you please.” Alton rose from his seat and nodded to them before going to the door. He left the room, leaving the door open to the hallway. His footsteps echoed in the corridor.

  D’Jenn raised his hands and moved them in the Hunter’s Tongue—a silent language of gestures they’d learned as children.

  He doesn’t know about the magic. He doesn’t know about you.

  Dormael shook his head.

  D’Jenn scoffed. Wonderful.

  Alton returned holding something wrapped in a towel. He walked to the table and sat the object in the middle, scooting the stones board aside. He glanced at the cousins and threw back the towel, revealing a broken, bloodied arrow.

  “This is what you pulled out of her.” Alton pointed to the fletching. “Now—fletchers will usually leave their marks on the shafts in order for others to recognize their work. Archers who make their own use bright feathers, so they can recognize their own arrows.”

  D’Jenn picked up the long piece of the arrow and looked it over. “It’s not well made. Nothing bright about the fletchings. No marks on the shaft.”

  Alton plucked the opposite end from the towel. “This is a bodkin point. They’re made to pierce armor. It sank right through Shawna’s leather.”

  Dormael winced. “Bodkins aren’t carried by hunters. Those are military arrowheads.”

  “Seems like an army moving around would have been noticed.” D’Jenn put the arrow back on the towel. “I’ve been in the area for weeks, and it’s been quiet.”

  “You said Shawna’s barony lies to the south?” Dormael shrugged. “If her family’s lands are between Ferolan and the Galanian Empire, maybe her manor was attacked. Maybe there’s an army marching on the city.”