Cadderly eyed him curiously, caught off guard by the grim tones and uncharacteristically reflective thought of the passion-driven youth.
The young man held a serrated knife in his hand for just a moment, with his hand only inches from Cadderly’s bare chest. For some reason, that dangerous image suddenly mattered to Cadderly. Silent alarms went off inside him. The young priest fought them away as easily as he rubbed the sweat from his neck, rationally telling himself that he was letting his imagination run wild.
The song played in the back of Cadderly’s mind. He almost turned to see if he’d left the tome open, but he hadn’t—he couldn’t. Shadows began to form atop Brennan’s slender shoulders.
Aura.
For some reason he couldn’t understand, Cadderly sensed again the unfathomable possibility that Brennan was considering stabbing him with the knife.
But Brennan dropped the knife on the tray and fumbled about with the small bowl and plate. Cadderly didn’t relax. Brennan’s movements were too stiff, too edgy, as if the boy was consciously trying to act as though nothing unusual had occurred.
Cadderly said nothing, but held the small towel around his neck with both hands, his muscles tight and ready. He didn’t concentrate on the young man’s actions, rather he shifted back to Brennan’s shoulders, to the misshapen, growling shadows huddled there, black claws raking empty air.
Aura.
The song played in the distant recesses of his mind, revealing the truth before him. But Cadderly, still a novice, still unsure of his power’s source, didn’t know if he should trust in it or not.
Cadderly couldn’t recognize the shadows any more than to equate them with the same fearsome things he had seen perched upon the shoulders of the beggar on the road. He sensed that they boded ill, sensed that they were images resulting from vile thoughts. Considering that Brennan had just been holding a knife, that a short stroke could have driven the serrated instrument into Cadderly’s bare chest, those sensations hardly put the young priest at ease.
“You must go,” he said to the youth.
Brennan looked up at him, confused, but again, the expression didn’t seem right to Cadderly. “Is something wrong?” the slender youth asked.
“Go,” Cadderly said again, his scowl unrelenting, and placed into the word the strength of a minor enchantment.
But the young man held stubbornly to his position. The shadows on Brennan’s shoulders dissipated and Cadderly had to wonder if he’d misread the signals, if those shadows represented something else entirely.
Brennan gave him a curt bow—another unexpected movement from the young man that Cadderly thought he knew quite well—and prudently slipped from the room, closing the door behind him.
Cadderly stood staring at the door for a long time, thinking he must be going mad. He looked back at The Tome of Universal Harmony, wondering if it was a cursed book, a book inspiring lies, and a discordant song that sounded true to the foolish victim’s ear. After all, how many priests had been found dead, lying across its open pages?
Cadderly labored for breath for a few crucial moments, once more at a crossroad in his life, though he didn’t realize it.
No, he decided at length. He had to believe in the book, wanted desperately to believe in something.
Still he remained in the same position, looking back at the door, at the tome, and lastly to his own heart. He realized that his meal was getting cold then realized he didn’t care.
The emptiness within him could not be sated by food.
Bogo had given Ghost more than the time the assassin had asked for, but the eager wizard decided to stay in the hearth room anyway, to see what he might learn. The talk among the growing number of patrons settled always on the rumors of war, but to Bogo’s relief, none of the gathering seemed to have any idea of the depth of the danger that hung over their heads. When Aballister decided to march, most likely in the early spring, the army of Castle Trinity would have little trouble bringing Carradoon to its knees.
The night deepened, the warm fires and the many conversations blazed, and Bogo, despite his fears that Ghost had already dispatched Cadderly, remained in the room, listening and chatting. Every time the door to the foyer opened, the young wizard looked up, anxious to note the return of the two priests, thinking that perhaps they would provide him with better information than the misinformed townsmen.
Bogo’s smile curled up when Kierkan Rufo entered a short while later, for the more formidable headmaster was not beside the man. Rufo headed right for the stairs, but Bogo cut him off.
“You are of the Edificant Library?” he asked, his tone sounding hopeful.
Rufo’s sharp features seemed sharper still in the flickering firelight, and his dark eyes didn’t blink as he regarded the curious-looking young man.
“Might I buy you an ale, or fine wine perhaps?” Bogo pressed, seeing no answer forthcoming.
Rufo’s answer dripped of suspicion. “Why?”
“I’m not from around here,” Bogo replied without the slightest hesitation. The ambitious mage had played that scene out a dozen times in his mind, along with several other potential scenarios concerning the priest who would be stooge. “All night I’ve been assailed with rumors of war,” he explained. “And all the rumors say that the Southern Heartlands’ one hope lies in the Edificant Library.”
Again Rufo failed to respond, but Bogo noticed the vain man straighten his shoulders with some pride.
“I’m not without … skills,” Bogo went on, confident that Rufo was falling into his trap. “Perhaps I might aid in the cause. Surely I would try.
“Let me buy you some wine, then,” Bogo offered after a short pause, not wanting to break his budding momentum. “We can talk, and perhaps a wise priest can guide me to where my skills would be most helpful.”
Rufo looked back at the foyer door, as though he expected, or feared, that Headmaster Avery would come pounding through at any moment. Then he nodded curtly and followed Bogo to one of the few empty tables remaining in the hearth room.
The talk remained casual for some time, with Bogo and Rufo sipping their wine, and Bogo quickly losing any hope that he would be able to get too much of the drink into the man. Rufo, who had been through many torments the last few tendays, remained cautious and guarded, covering his half-filled glass whenever Brennan, waiting on tables, made one of his frequent visits.
Bogo noted several times that the innkeeper’s son seemed to be regarding him suspiciously, but he attributed it to the lad’s natural curiosity that a stranger would have business with a priest from the library, and thought no more of it.
Bogo wasted little time in shifting the conversation to more specific topics, such as the Edificant Library and the ranking of Rufo’s portly friend. Gradually, casually, the wizard led the talk to include the other priest who was a guest at the inn. Rufo, cryptic from the start, backed off even more and seemed to grow more suspicious, but Bogo did not relent.
“Why are you in town?” Bogo asked, rather sharply.
Rufo seemed to note the subtle shift in the increasingly impatient wizard’s tone. He rested back in his chair and regarded Bogo silently.
“I must go,” the priest announced unexpectedly, bracing himself on the table and beginning to rise.
“Sit down, Kierkan Rufo,” Bogo snarled at him.
Rufo looked at him curiously for a moment, and realized he had not, in the course of the conversation, told the man his name. A small whine escaped the man’s thin lips as he fell back into his chair, as though he’d expected what was to come.
“How do you know my name?” Rufo demanded with as much courage as he could muster.
“Druzil told it to me,” Bogo answered bluntly. Again came that almost imperceptible whine.
Rufo began to ask another question, but Bogo promptly silenced him.
“You will answer and obey,” Bogo explained casually.
“Not again,” Rufo growled with defiance that seemed to surprise even himself.
“Dorigen thinks differently,” Bogo replied, “as does Druzil, who has been in your room for both nights you have been in town,” Bogo lied. “The imp has been in your room since before you and Avery occupied it. Did you think to escape so easily, Kierkan Rufo? Did you think the battle was won despite the minor setback we were given in Shilmista Forest?”
Rufo found no words with which to respond.
“There,” Bogo said, settling back into his chair and flipping his stringy brown hair over to one side. “Now we understand each other.”
“What do you require of me this time?” Rufo asked, his voice sharp and a bit too loud for Bogo’s liking, especially since Brennan was nearby again, regarding the two men with open curiosity. Rufo’s visage continued to appear defiant, but Bogo was hardly concerned. The man was weak, he knew, else Rufo would have already left, or struck out against his revealed enemy.
“As of now, nothing,” Bogo answered, not wanting to set too many things into motion until he better understood what Ghost and the Night Masks were planning. “I will be nearby, and you will remain available to me. I have some specific things planned for my visit to Carradoon, and you, Rufo, will play a role in those, do not doubt.” He tipped his glass to the man and drained it then rose from the table and started away, leaving Rufo lost in yet another irresolvable trap.
“Be wary, young mage,” Bogo heard from the side as he took his first step up the stairs beside the hearth room’s bar. He turned to see young Brennan, casually wiping down the bar and regarding him dangerously.
“Are you addressing me?” Bogo asked, trying to sound superior, though he was indeed becoming a bit unnerved by the innkeeper’s son’s sudden attention.
“I’m warning you,” Brennan growled. “And know that it’s the only warning you’ll receive. Your business here is as an observer—that position determined by Aballister himself. If you interfere, you might find yourself lying in a hole beside Cadderly.”
Bogo’s eyes widened in shock, an expression that brought a satisfied smile to the boy’s lips.
“Who are you?” the wizard demanded. “How …?”
“We are many,” Brennan replied, obviously enjoying the spectacle of the squirming mage. “We are many and we are all around you. You were told that we do things properly, Bogo Rath. You were told that we take no chances.” The young man let it drop there and turned back to his work at the bar.
Bogo understood the reason behind the sudden break in the conversation when Kierkan Rufo and Avery, just returned to the inn, walked past him up the stairs, heading for their rooms.
Bogo followed them at a safe distance, no longer certain that he would have further instructions for Kierkan Rufo, no longer certain of anything.
TWELVE
MORTALITY
The dawn found Cadderly at meditation—his exercises—reaching his arms far to the side one at a time, muscle playing powerfully against muscle. He eyed the open book on the table before him as he moved, heard the song in his head, and felt in tune with it. Sweat lathered his bare chest and streaked the sides of his face, and the young priest felt it keenly, his senses heightened by the meditative state.
When at last he finished, Cadderly was thoroughly weary. He considered his bed then changed his mind, thinking he’d been spending too much time in his room the past few days. The day would be bright and warm. Outside his window, Impresk Lake glittered with a thousand sparkles in the morning sun.
Cadderly closed The Tome of Universal Harmony, but looking upon the waters of that lake, so serene and inspiring, he still heard the song. It was time to take the knowledge—and the emotional strength, he hoped—that he had gained from the book out into the world. It was time to see how his new insights might fit into the everyday struggles of the people around him.
Cadderly feared those revelations. Could he control the shadows he would inevitably see dancing atop the shoulders of the many people of Carradoon? And could he decipher their meaning—truly? He thought back to the events of the night before, when he had turned young Brennan away, frightened at the implications of the squirming, growling manifestations he’d seen.
The young priest washed and toweled off, strengthening his resolve. The choices seemed clear: go out and learn to assimilate in light of his newfound knowledge, or remain in his room, living a hermetic existence. Cadderly thought of Belisarius, alone in his tower. The wizard would die there, alone, and most likely, his body would not be discovered for tendays.
Cadderly did not wish to share that grim fate.
Still wearing the mantle of young Brennan, Ghost, absently replacing the candles on the lowered chandelier at the top of the staircase, watched the young priest leave the Dragon’s Codpiece. He’d heard Cadderly tell Fredegar that he wouldn’t return until late, and Ghost thought that a good thing. The Night Masks were in town and ready, and Ghost had to meet with them. Perhaps young Cadderly would have a rather unpleasant surprise waiting for him when he returned that evening.
A patient killer, an artist, Ghost would have preferred to wait a few more days before arranging the strike, would have liked to get even closer to the curious young man, to know everything about him so that there could be no mistakes. The assassin considered that especially important in light of the potential problems arising from the arrival of the two other priests. Powerful priests had been known to resurrect the dead, and under normal circumstances, Ghost would prefer to take the time and discern exactly how much magical interference might be expected from the newcomers, particularly the priest bearing the title of headmaster. Might the Night Masks slay young Cadderly, only to have Avery locate his body and bring him back to life?
Bogo Rath presented even more complications. What might the upstart wizard be planning? the assassin wondered. Bogo had spoken with the other, lesser priest on the previous night, and that could not be a good thing.
Ghost didn’t like loose ends. He was a consummate professional who prided himself on being a perfect killer with never a lingering problem left behind. But while the operation seemed ragged to him, he had to believe that the problems could be circumvented—or eliminated. A new wrinkle had come into the picture, a new desire for Ghost that, in his mind at least, justified his seeming carelessness. Ghost felt the vitality coursing through his limbs, felt the powerful urges of adolescence, and remembered the pleasure those urges might bring.
He didn’t want to give up his new body.
But he knew, too, that he couldn’t continue to play that charade much longer. With a single meeting, Cadderly had come to suspect that something was amiss, and Ghost had no doubt that those suspicions would only increase with time. Also, in Brennan’s form, Ghost was severely restricted. His other body remained alive, and it would until the assassin fully committed himself to the idea of taking Brennan’s body as his own, a dangerous action indeed until his mission was completed. And while that other, puny form drew breath, Ghost couldn’t use the Ghearufu on any new victims. Even to get to Vander, his chosen victim, Ghost would have to go through his own body, and doing that would release young Brennan.
Things would become so much simpler when Cadderly lay dead, he knew. Ghost had considered trying the strike the night before, when he’d held a cutting knife in his hand just inches from Cadderly’s bare chest. If his aim had been good, the game would have ended then and there, and he could collect his gold, and seriously consider his immediate impulse to retain that young and vital body. In just a few days, his spirit would become acclimated to his new form, and the Ghearufu would be his to use again. Vital youth would be his once more.
Hesitance had cost the assassin his chance. Before he had resolved to move, Cadderly was again intent upon him. The loose ends—his ignorance of Cadderly’s powers, his ignorance of the other two priests—had held him back.
“Brennan!” Fredegar’s cry startled the assassin from his contemplations. “What are you waiting for?” the innkeeper bellowed. “Get that chandelier cranked back to its place, and s
oon. The hearth room needs cleaning, boy. Now get to it!”
More restrictions accompanied the pleasing young form. Ghost didn’t even argue. The Night Masks were not far—he had plenty of time to get to them—and in truth, he was glad for the delay so that he could better sort through the many potential problems and the many interesting questions.
A little while later, the assassin was even more grateful for the delay that had kept him at the inn, when a young woman, strawberry-blond hair bouncing gaily around her shoulders, entered the Dragon’s Codpiece, looking for Cadderly and introducing herself as Lady Danica Maupoissant.
Another wrinkle.
“There’s the lad!” Ivan called, pointing back toward the front of the Dragon’s Codpiece and roughly spinning Pikel around.
“Oo oi!” Pikel piped as soon as he spotted Cadderly, more concerned with getting Ivan’s hands off him so that he might stop his spin. Dizzied, the green-bearded dwarf shuffled from foot to foot, struggling to straighten his cooking pot helmet.
Ivan started for Cadderly, who had not yet noticed them, but Danica put a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. As soon as the startled dwarf turned and looked into Danica’s pleading eyes, he understood.
“Ye want to go to him yerself,” Ivan reasoned.
“Might I?” Danica asked. “I don’t know how Cadderly will respond to seeing me. I would prefer …”
“Say no more, Lady,” Ivan bellowed. “Me and me brother got more than a bit of work afore us, and it’s getting late in the day already. I’ll get us some rooms there.” He pointed to the sign of an inn two doors down from where they stood, and two doors shy of the Dragon’s Codpiece. “Ye can come and get us when ye want us.
“And ye can give him this from me and me brother,” Ivan added, pulling the adamantine spindle-disks from a deep pocket. He started to give them to Danica then pulled them back, embarrassed. As discreetly as he could, the gruff dwarf rubbed off a chunk of the weapon’s first victim’s face. Danica couldn’t miss the movement. With a helpless shrug, Ivan tossed the disks to her.