Lightbringer
Chapter 9
Lightbringer
Merauve’s index finger drummed against his knee as afternoon light slanted through the barred windows. Elenden was a gifted orator—his testimony lodged deep in Merauve’s mind. Each thread of Elenden’s narrative seemed to pull him further from familiar ground and deeper into questions that had no comfortable answers. Entertaining, no doubt—but how much was true, and how much relevant to his purposes?
“I find myself with considerable business to attend to,” he announced, rising. “We’ll resume tomorrow.”
Elenden’s response was that peculiar gesture again: right hand open, palm slightly raised, fingers extended outward. The casual acknowledgment carried a nuance of meaning Merauve was still learning to read.
“Of course,” Elenden said simply. “Until tomorrow.”
As Merauve reached the door, he paused. “Dinner will be brought to you this evening. I trust you’ll find the arrangements adequate.”
Outside the tower, Merauve walked slower than usual, his mind still turning over Elenden’s claims. The afternoon air carried the familiar sounds of an outpost in its daily rhythms. The clash of practice swords from the training yards, the tread of guards changing shifts, the distant hammering from the smithy where weapons were maintained and armor repaired. The sounds of Empire at work: methodical, purposeful, efficient.
Fortress Kestrel had been his home for eleven months now—long enough for the mountain air to feel normal in his lungs, long enough for the stone corridors to know the cadence of his steps. The outpost commanded a strategic pass through to the north-western mountains, one of three such installations that controlled access to western borderlands. Officially, they monitored trade routes and provided Imperial presence in regions where the Emperor’s authority grew thin with distance. Unofficially, they served as listening posts for intelligence that filtered down from the wilds.
The walls that enclosed their small kingdom stood perhaps ten feet high, built from the same grey stone as the surrounding mountains. Walking the perimeter took less than a quarter of an hour at a leisurely pace, though the irregular terrain meant some sections required more attention than others. Two hundred Imperial soldiers called this place home, along with support staff, merchants, and the various specialists required to maintain civilization at the edge of the known world.
Major Aldric Thorne commanded the military aspects with admirable skill. Merauve respected the man’s grasp of tactical and practical necessities, though their different chain of command meant their paths crossed only when absolutely required. The Major answered to military command; Merauve reported through Inquisition channels. Both served the Empire, but in ways that occasionally created friction over resources and priorities.
As ranking Inquisitor, Merauve was accountable for intelligence operations, local diplomacy, civilian loyalty, and the sensitive lines of questioning that fell outside normal military purview. It was a position of considerable authority for someone his age, though he suspected his current posting represented both opportunity and exile. Success here could lead to advancement; failure would likely mean a posting somewhere even more remote.
The eleven months had been... educational. He had transformed a rough frontier installation into something approaching his exacting standards during the first several moons. The guards now maintained proper posture. The staff understood the difference between competence and excellence. Reports flowed upward through proper channels with the regularity of clockwork. He had carved order from chaos through methods both subtle and direct, leaving behind a reputation that would persist long after his eventual departure.
But external recognition remained frustratingly elusive. His quarterly reports had been acknowledged but not praised. His recent resolution of the trader smuggling operation had been noted in passing. Even his handling of the border clan disputes, which had required considerable diplomatic finesse alongside more... creative Inquisition methods, had earned only a routine commendation earlier this Spring.
High Inquisitor Sirius’s visit had changed that equation. Elenden’s interrogation represented the kind of opportunity that transformed field operatives from pieces being moved to players moving pieces. Success would mean advancement, prestige, the kind of posting where real decisions were made. The promise of a High Inquisitor position was a taste he savored, returning to it again and again like a drunkard to his cups.
His private chambers were situated in the northwest corner of the grounds, intentionally outside the tower where too many eyes and too many ears made his job more challenging. The timbered structure might have once been a guest suite. The accommodations were modest by noble standards but luxurious for frontier postings: private external quarters with a bath, room to work forms, a writing desk positioned to catch optimal light, shelves for his growing collection of regional intelligence materials, even window boxes for wildflowers.
The orderly had left his daily correspondence carefully stacked. Merauve settled behind his desk, tobacco already between his fingers, and began the familiar ritual of administration. Intelligence requisitions required approval. Personnel transfers needed review. A merchant complaint about tariff calculations demanded investigation.
Jerome’s name appeared twice in the afternoon’s paperwork. Notable was a request for extended interrogation time with two prisoners from the Summer smuggling arrests. Merauve initialed his approval while noting that Jerome had been making good on their arrangement: his case closures already included two resolutions from Merauve’s transferred caseload. Merauve set down his quill, studying the case results. Jerome had been a competent but unremarkable interrogator before their arrangement. A sudden burst of success could be attributed to either genuine improvement or the kind of corner-cutting that came from laziness or desperation. Merauve suspected the latter.
Still, the boy had kept his word about maintaining Merauve’s cases. No irregularities had appeared among the transferred files so far. Whatever methods Jerome was employing, they produced the required confessions with notable results.
A knock interrupted his review of the monthly intelligence summary. “Enter.”
The orderly stepped inside with crisp precision. “Sir, Major Thorne’s compliments. He can see you tomorrow morning at your convenience. Suggests after first bell if that suits your schedule.”
“Acceptable.” Merauve didn’t look up from his papers. “Confirm the appointment.”
“Yes, sir.” The orderly hesitated. “Also, sir, the kitchen staff inquired about your dinner preferences. You haven’t taken your usual table in the hall for the past three days.”
The observation was accurate—the pressure, unwelcome. Since beginning his sessions with Elenden, Merauve alternated between sharing meals with Elenden or avoiding the communal dining experience in favor of privacy. The public gatherings had begun to feel... empty. Typical conversation topics seemed increasingly trivial compared to fanciful tales of truth dancing and mysterious voices.
“I’ll take dinner in the hall tonight,” he decided. “The usual arrangements.”
As the orderly departed, Merauve found his gaze drawn to the window. The tower room where Elenden waited was just visible from this angle, its windows catching the last gold of afternoon light. By now, the man would have received the later of his twice-daily meals.
The officers’ dining hall buzzed with evening energy: the hearty voices of men who had spent their day in productive labor and felt deserving of rest—the clink of glasses and utensils, the laughter that came from shared hardship and mutual respect. Merauve’s usual corner table waited with its customary precision, the attending staff having learned to anticipate his preferences with mathematical accuracy.
Captain Morris nodded from across the room, raising his wine cup in salute. Lieutenant Kavar offered a respectful bow from his position near the hearth. The quartermaster caught his eye and tapped two fingers to his temple in casual acknowledgment between peers. All proper, all exactly as it should be.
Yet something felt missing. As Merauve took his chair and surveyed the scene, he listened to the conversations around him with new ears. At the neighboring table, three lieutenants debated the merits of different sword techniques with the passionate intensity of scholars discussing philosophy. Their arguments were well-informed, their logic sound, but their perspectives felt... shallow. Bounded by the practical concerns of their profession, focused on the immediate.
“...proper footwork makes all the difference. You can have the finest blade in the realm, but if your stance is wrong, you’re fighting with a disadvantage...”
Elenden’s description returned to him unbidden—dancing between arrows, movements that had True names. Had that been technique or something else entirely? This was like listening to musicians debate bow technique while remaining deaf to the symphony.
He caught himself before the thought could develop further. What was he doing, critiquing frontier soldiers’ discussions over their evening wine?
His meal arrived as ordered: roasted fowl, root vegetables prepared to his exact specifications, wine from his private reserve—spoils from the smuggling operation. He ate methodically, aware that his mood was darkening without clear cause. The food was excellent, the service flawless, the company respectable. By all accounts, he should have been content, yet restlessness coiled beneath his composed exterior.
As he dabbed his napkin to his lips, he found his eyes drifting toward the hall’s tall windows, trying to catch a glimpse of the tower where a different kind of conversation waited.
“Inquisitor Merauve?”
He looked up to find Captain Morris standing beside his table, expression mixing respect with mild concern. “Sir, you’ve been... distant. All well?”
“Perfectly,” Merauve replied, forcing his attention back to the immediate. “Long day reviewing intelligence reports. The mind wanders.”
Morris nodded with understanding. “Of course, sir. Though if I may... the men have been curious about your special prisoner. Word travels, you know. Some of the guards mentioned unusual circumstances surrounding his interrogation.”
This was interesting. Merauve set down his wine cup with deliberate care. “What sort of curiosity?”
“Nothing inappropriate, sir. Simply professional interest in your methods. The tower guards report that he’s been... cooperative. Unusual for someone of his background.” Morris paused. “Sir, is he really one of the True? Are any of the stories about them accurate?”
Merauve measured his response carefully. “The prisoner possesses certain knowledge relevant to Imperial interests. The specifics remain classified.” He leaned forward, arms spread wide on the table cloth, and sharpened his voice just enough to discourage further questions. “I trust the men understand their discretion is required?”
“Absolutely, sir. Professional discipline all around.” Morris straightened slightly. “Though I’ll confess personal curiosity myself. Always wondered if there was any truth to the old tales.”
Merauve sat back and crossed his legs. “Many tales contain truth, Captain. The challenge lies in separating fact from embellishment.” He gestured toward the empty chair across from him. “Please, join me. I find myself in need of practical conversation.” He did not.
Morris procured an empty seat from a neighboring table and eagerly settled into it with visible pleasure. Merauve gestured to the waitstaff to bring a proper setting for the Captain. The next quarter-hour passed in discussion of political commentary, opinions on the war effort, the type of discussion most common amongst officers: opining on a fate they had no control over. As Merauve engaged with theatrical attention, a good part of his mind remained elsewhere.
When the evening finally wound down and officers began departing for their quarters, Merauve lingered over his wine. The hall gradually emptied until only the cleanup staff remained, moving through their tasks with wordless coordination. Through the windows, the tower’s lights still glowed like distant stars.
He wondered what Elenden was doing in that moment. Praying? Practicing whatever absurd floor-sleeping meditation the True probably had a pretentious name for? Singing?
The realization that he cared irritated him.
Merauve’s quarters were quiet, the only sound the faint crackle of the hearth fire he had resurrected from this afternoon’s coals before settling in. A single candle burned on his desk, its steady flame casting dancing shadows across his correspondence. He prepared for bed. The day’s events had left him with an unsettled sensation he could not quite name.
The first knock came soft as a whisper against stone. So soft that Merauve almost dismissed it as the building settling. Then came the second: deliberate, calculated, carrying the weight of authority that expected acknowledgment.
Merauve’s hand found Tachet. A knock at this hour? He rose from his chair, every instinct alert. “Enter,” he called, keeping his voice dangerously steady.
The door opened to reveal a hooded and cloaked visitor, notably arrayed in white robes edged with gold. The stranger stepped inside, closing the door soundlessly before lowering the hood.
The man that emerged from beneath possessed the kind of beauty that made Merauve immediately suspicious. Not the manufactured perfection of court dandies, but something that seemed to radiate from within. Facial structure that caught the light just so, a dimpled chin adorned a jaw that suggested both refinement and resolve, eyes like rich coffee that seemed to hold private jokes with the universe. It was the kind of face that made mothers offer their daughters and merchants offer credit. Men would follow a face like that into a hopeless charge against enemy lines, while women would follow it into different, but equally perilous, territory. When he smiled, it was with the easy confidence of someone who had never doubted his welcome anywhere.
“Inquisitor Merauve,” the stranger said, his voice carrying notes of expensive education poorly disguised as warmth. “I do hope you’ll forgive the irregular hour. I find these mountain passes easier to navigate when there are fewer... witnesses to one’s coming and going.”
Merauve’s hand remained near Tachet, though he made no move to draw the blade. “You have me at a disadvantage. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
“Cassius,” the man replied, making a subtle gesture toward the room’s second chair—a request framed as mere acknowledgment. Merauve nodded permission before he quite realized he’d done so. The stranger settled with the easy confidence of invited company, and Merauve lowered back into his own chair, drawn by something beyond mere courtesy. “And you’re quite right, we haven’t met formally. Though I’ve been following your work with considerable interest.” His gaze swept the modest quarters with obvious appreciation. “Particularly your... unconventional approach to interrogation.”
The words carried implications that made Merauve’s pulse quicken. He raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
Cassius laughed, the sound warm as summer wine. “Come now, Inquisitor. Comfortable quarters, fine meals, long conversation? Most refreshing after what Elenden endured at Fortknow.” He leaned forward with the conspiratorial air of someone sharing a delightful secret. “Months under Garoth’s tender care, and not a word. Three days of your... hospitality, and suddenly he’s chatty? Remarkable technique.”
Merauve felt himself entering dangerous waters. This man knew far too much about classified operations. “And your interest in Imperial interrogation methods stems from...?”
“Professional curiosity.” Cassius withdrew something from his robes: a small medallion that caught the firelight and seemed to hold it. The design was unfamiliar yet somehow significant – like a half-remembered dream – weaving geometric patterns that bent and twisted. The broken symmetries created something vast and terrible in their complexity, as if the medallion were a fragment of some cosmic blueprint rendered in miniature. “I represent certain... colleagues who appreciate excellence wherever it may be found.”
The medallion disappeared back into his robes as quickly as it had appeared, but its afterimage seemed to linger in Merauve’s vision.
“Your prisoner tells fascinating stories, doesn’t he?” Cassius continued, his tone remaining conversational despite the weight of his words. “Truth dancing, mysterious voices, narrow escapes. Such imagination! Though I suppose even the most fanciful tales sometimes contain kernels of... substance.”
Merauve chose his words with the precision of someone walking across thin ice. “The subject has been cooperative.”
“Oh, he’s been far more than cooperative.” Cassius’s smile widened. “He’s been truthful. Remarkably, dangerously truthful. The question is: what does an ambitious young Inquisitor do with that?”
The fire in the hearth seemed to flicker, as if responding to an unfelt wind. Something about the man’s presence made the room feel smaller, the shadows deeper, and Merauve’s instincts whispered warnings he couldn’t quite name.
“I serve the Empire,” Merauve said finally. “My loyalty is clear.”
Cassius leaned back in his chair with the relaxed posture of someone who held all the cards. “High Inquisitor Sirius expects results within the month. Results that this far have proven... elusive.”
The casual mention of classified timelines sent another chill down Merauve’s spine, but his voice remained perfectly controlled. “You seem remarkably well-informed about Imperial intelligence operations.”
“We make it our business to be well-informed about many things.” Cassius’s gaze drifted downward, settling on the stiletto at Merauve’s belt with the eyes of a connoisseur. “That’s exceptional craftsmanship you carry there.”
Merauve’s hand moved instinctively to Tachet’s grip, thumb tracing the worn grooves smooth from years of use. Despite himself, pride crept into his voice. “Serpent steel, folded seventeen times. The grip is ironwood from the Southern Provinces, shaped for perfect balance.” He couldn’t quite suppress the enthusiasm that always surfaced when discussing his blade. “The weight distribution is... well, it’s art, really. Throws true at any distance within fifteen paces, cuts clean through—”
He caught himself, realizing he was lecturing like an academy instructor.
“May I?” Cassius extended his hand, palm already open to receive.
Every instinct screamed against surrendering his private weapon to a stranger. Tachet never left his possession, forged specifically for his hand, his technique. Yet something in Cassius’s manner suggested this was less request than test—refusing might reveal more than compliance.
After a moment’s hesitation, Merauve withdrew Tachet with reverent care and placed it in his palm, offering it grip-first.
The moment Cassius’s fingers closed around the stiletto’s grip, the room’s temperature plummeted. The fire in the hearth dwindled to barely glowing embers, its warmth suddenly absent. The candle on Merauve’s desk flickered once, twice, then died—its flame not blown out but simply ceasing to exist, leaving a thin trail of smoke that hung motionless in the suddenly still air.
Merauve withdrew his fingers too quickly from the suddenly cold blade, hissing as Tachet’s edge caught his little finger at the joint. A drop of blood welled up, dark in the dying light.
“Careful,” Cassius murmured, though his eyes remained fixed on the blade with an expression of deep satisfaction. The blood had already disappeared into the steel, absorbed like water into parched earth.
But the blade itself... the blade burst into flame.
Fire raced along the steel’s length in patterns that had nothing to do with natural combustion. Blue flames chased silver tongues of light up and down the narrow blade. Cassius held it up to catch the otherworldly light, and Merauve could see his face transformed by whatever he read in the dancing flames.
“Magnificent,” Cassius breathed, his voice carrying genuine appreciation. “Thirty-seven souls, if I’m reading this correctly. And such exquisite suffering in each taking. The blade remembers, you see. Every life, every final moment, every delicious instant when hope transformed into despair.” He looked up at Merauve with something approaching admiration. “This is better than any letter of recommendation, any testimony to character. This is a resume written in blood and perfectly preserved.”
The flames continued their hypnotic dance, and in their light, Merauve saw something that made his breath catch. For just a moment, reflected in the blade’s surface, he glimpsed faces: men and women whose lives had ended on Tachet’s point. Their eyes held accusation, and something else... something that looked almost like satisfaction, as if their deaths had served some greater purpose they had finally come to understand.
“You have a gift,” Cassius continued, still studying the burning blade. “A natural talent that most spend years trying to develop. The ability to find exactly the right pressure point, to apply precisely the correct leverage to break a will while preserving the mind. Artistry, really.”
The flames began to fade, dancing lower along the steel until only cold metal remained. But the room’s chill persisted, and when Cassius handed the weapon back, it felt different in Merauve’s grip. Heavier.
Cassius leaned back into his chair. “Which brings us to the matter at hand,” he continued, as if the display of otherworldly power had been nothing more than a parlor trick. “Your prisoner possesses information that my colleagues require. The location of the Fire Monastery, specifically. When you extract it—and you will, given your remarkable talents — we would appreciate learning of it first. Before your report to High Inquisitor Sirius.”
Merauve slid Tachet back into its sheath, though the blade’s altered weight disrupted his usual fluid motion. “And then?”
“Then you file your report as normal. The Empire receives its intelligence, Sirius receives his victory, and you receive the recognition you’ve earned.” Cassius’s smile carried warmth that never reached his eyes. “But here’s the crucial point, Inquisitor: regardless of whether you succeed in extracting the monastery’s location, Elenden himself must not survive. One thrust of that remarkable blade, applied in the correct location, would resolve many difficulties. The man possesses truths that could destabilize the very foundations of Imperial authority. Lies that could inspire dangerous instabilities.”
The suggestion hung in the air like smoke from a snuffed candle.
“However,” Cassius continued, “such a service would not go unrewarded. My colleagues appreciate loyalty, and we reward it generously. Power, Inquisitor. Real power.”
His gaze drifted to the dead candle on the desk, and a slight smile played at his lips. He made a dismissive gesture toward the extinguished wick. The candle burst back to life—first with a flame of pure blue that made the shadows dance wildly, then settling into a normal orange glow as if nothing unusual had occurred. “The kind that makes High Inquisitor positions seem quaint. The kind that shapes empires, not merely serves them.”
He rose suddenly, retrieving his cloak from where he’d draped it across the chair’s back. “I don’t require an immediate answer, of course. Such decisions demand careful consideration. But perhaps... consider this: what has conventional service to the Empire truly gained you? How many moons in this frontier outpost, cleaning up other men’s failures, hoping for recognition that may never come?”
The hood settled over his features again, transforming him back into mystery. But his voice remained warm, almost brotherly.
“My colleagues offer a different path, Merauve. One where exceptional talent receives exceptional rewards. One where a man of your... singular gifts might find himself wielding true power, shaping the very foundations of authority, not merely enforcing someone else’s will.”
He moved toward the door as if it would open by will alone. At the threshold, he paused.
“One final question, if you’ll indulge my curiosity.” His voice carried the casual tone of afterthought, but Merauve sensed the import beneath it. “Have you ever heard the name A̷e̶r̴e̶l̷l̴y̴n̵?”
Merauve searched his memory—the name carried an unusual quality, musical almost, but entirely unfamiliar. “No. Should I have?”
Cassius studied him for a long moment, and Merauve had the unsettling sense that his truthfulness was being measured by methods beyond mere observation. Finally, the hooded stranger nodded, apparently satisfied.
“Perhaps not.” A pause, weighted with meaning. “I’ll contact you within a seven.” He looked upward, seeming to recalculate. “No more than a ten.”
The door closed behind him with barely a whisper, leaving Merauve alone with the candle, the dying hearth, and the weight of Tachet against his ribs. Outside, the northern wind blew restless, and somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard the sound of hoofbeats fading into the night.
He sat for a long time in the growing darkness, watching the candle burn, one hand unconsciously touching the spot where his blade rested. When he finally rose to bank the hearth’s dying embers and prepare for sleep, he struggled to recall several details of the conversation, specifically the look of Cassius’ medallion, and that final name he had inquired about.
The dreams that came were full of fire, shadow, and faces.
When morning came, Merauve woke with the taste of ash in his mouth and the memory of flames dancing along Tachet’s edge. He lay still for a luxurious moment, watching dawn light creep across his ceiling, trying to separate dream from reality. The conversation with Cassius felt both impossibly vivid and strangely distant, like viewing a tapestry through warped glass.
His morning routine provided its usual anchor. Working through the forms, the familiar scrape of blade against skin, and cold water shocking away the lingering fog. Each practiced movement—dress, arrange, inspect—rebuilt the walls between what had happened in darkness and what must be faced in daylight. Order.
As he adjusted his uniform’s final details, his hand paused at Tachet’s sheath. The blade’s weight felt... normal. Exactly as it had for years. He half-drew it, studying the folded patterns in the morning light. No supernatural flames, no whispered accusations. Just steel, beautiful and lethal in its simplicity.
But Cassius himself: that was no dream. The man had entered his quarters, had known classified information, had offered... what exactly? Power. Influence. His claims made High Inquisitor positions seem a bit quaint.
Merauve sheathed Tachet with a decisive motion. Whatever Cassius represented, whatever opportunities lay in shadow, the immediate path remained clear. Extract information. File reports. Advance through proper channels. The rest could be considered when, if, the opportunities became available.
The Major’s office occupied the ground floor of the keep’s central tower, positioned to provide oversight of both the courtyard and the main gate. Merauve arrived precisely at first bell’s final toll, his uniform immaculate.
“Inquisitor.” Major Thorne rose from behind his desk with the economy of long military service. “Good to see you. Please, have a seat.”
Aldric Thorne’s grey hair and weathered face marked six decades, his lean frame still carrying the posture of a career soldier. His desk held only essentials, carefully placed, though Merauve noted personal touches: a small portrait of what might be family, a carved wooden chess set that looked like a child’s gift.
“Major.” Merauve lowered himself into the offered chair. “Thank you for making time. I trust operations continue smoothly?”
“Smoothly enough.” Thorne’s tone was professional but carried undertones of something else. “Though I’ll confess curiosity about your request for a meeting.” He paused, gauging Merauve with sharp eyes. “Unless this concerns your late-night visitor?”
Merauve kept his expression neutral through considerable effort. “Visitor?”
“Wall patrol logged it. Hooded figure, white robes. Arrived through the north gate shortly after midnight watch, proceeded directly to your quarters. Departed approximately an hour later.” Thorne’s voice carried no accusation, merely the facts as recorded. “Guards noted the individual moved with... unusual authority. The kind that suggested questions might be unhealthy.”
“Ah.” Merauve allowed a slight smile. “A colleague from the capital. Unofficial channels, you understand. Classification prevents me from elaborating.”
“Of course.” Thorne’s expression suggested he understood more than Merauve might prefer. “Though I’ll note for the record: in my boyhood, we had stories about figures matching that description. Called them Lightbringers. Servants of something greater than Empire, hunters of paganisms and deviants.” He shrugged. “Just stories, naturally. Though it’s odd how many childhood tales seem to be walking around these days.”
The opening was too perfect to ignore. “Speaking of stories, Major, I have an unusual request. One of your kitchen staff—a girl named Maudalia. I’d like to grant her immediate leave to visit family. Perhaps one ten.”
Thorne’s eyebrows rose slightly. “For what purpose?”
Merauve considered his words carefully. “My current subject made certain claims about her mother’s health. Specific claims. I find myself curious whether there’s any accuracy to his... predictions.”
“Predictions?” Interest sharpened in Thorne’s voice. “The prisoner’s proven reliable in other matters?”
“That remains to be determined. Hence the experiment.” Merauve leaned forward slightly. “I realize it’s irregular, but—”
A sharp knock interrupted. Thorne called entry, and a travel-stained scout stepped inside, still breathing hard from exertion.
“Sir, urgent report from the northern patrol.” The scout’s words came quick and clipped. “That band of wilders we’ve been tracking—they’ve moved south. Spotted less than five miles from Raven’s Gap.”
Thorne’s entire demeanor shifted, the casual conversation partner replaced by military commander. “How many?”
“Perhaps thirty, sir. Men, women, some children. But armed, and moving with purpose.”
“The Kervani band?” At the scout’s nod, Thorne’s expression darkened. “They’ve never come this far south. Standing orders are to observe only, but—” He glanced at Merauve. “This particular group has prices on their heads. Multiple imperial warrants dating back years. Something about harboring fugitives.”
“Shall I ready a patrol, sir?” the scout asked.
“No.” Thorne’s response came swift and certain. “Maintain observation only. I want to know what drew them from their usual territories.” He dismissed the scout with a gesture, then turned back to Merauve. “Your kitchen girl can have her leave. I’ll have the paperwork drawn up immediately.”
“You seem troubled by these wilders,” Merauve observed.
“Troubled? No. Curious.” Thorne moved to his window, gazing north toward the mountains. “The Kervani band has survived longer than most by staying in the deep wilderness, well beyond our reach. For them to risk coming this close...” He shook his head. “Something’s driven them from safety. I’d very much like to know what.”
“If they’re wanted criminals, surely capture would be—”
“We’d lose half a patrol just finding them, assuming they didn’t simply vanish into terrain we can’t follow.” Thorne shook his head. “No, sometimes wisdom means knowing when not to strike.”
The Major returned to his desk, pulling out papers for Maudalia’s leave. As he wrote, he spoke without looking up. “Curious times, Inquisitor. Stories walking out of legend, wilders abandoning ancient patterns, prisoners who make predictions about kitchen staff.” He signed with a flourish, then met Merauve’s eyes directly. “One might almost think more than the season is changing.”
“One might,” Merauve agreed, accepting the signed papers. “Thank you for your cooperation, Major.”
As he turned to leave, Thorne’s voice stopped him at the door. “Inquisitor? A word of advice, from someone who’s served the Empire longer than you’ve been alive?”
Merauve paused, looking back. The Major’s arithmetic was generous, but best not to be pedantic.
“Some stories are just stories. But some...” Thorne’s gaze was steady, knowing. “Some were written as warnings. You’ve been good for Kestrel: increasing effectiveness and morale at the outpost here.” Thorne smiled, seeming genuine, “Take care of yourself.”
Merauve nodded acknowledgment and departed, signed papers in hand. The tower’s corridors echoed with his footsteps as he made his way to the main entrance. Outside, the duty sergeant waited at his post.
“See these distributed to the appropriate departments,” Merauve instructed, handing over the requisitions.
The autumn air hit him like a slap: crisp mountain cold mixed with the earthier scents of horse sweat from the nearby stables and woodsmoke from the kitchens. He breathed deeply, trying to clear his head of Thorne’s warnings and memories of burning blades. He was dealing with forces beyond his expertise: the phrase rankled, but he wouldn’t lie to himself. He had always prided himself on being the most dangerous person in the room, the one who understood all the angles. But now...
He turned back to look up at the tower, his gaze finding the barred windows of Elenden’s quarters high above. Perhaps it was time to stop dancing around the edges of these mysteries and demand some real answers.