The Arcana: Shadow Wars, Codex I

Chapter XIX

The Corpse in the Hall of Truth

In which Alia prepares for battle

Alia tossed and turned all night, but when the sunlight hit her window she bolted upright in her bed. She said her dawn prayer to the Huntress, then went down to take her breakfast. She sat with the other travelers, but barely heard a word they said.

Over and over in her mind she reviewed what she had seen through Tregarde’s little leafbird. She had passed the device on to Sheridan, so she could see through its eyes the meeting Zenon’s men arranged to drop off the sarcophagus.

Greed. This vice, this deficiency in Zenon’s men proved to be Sheridan’s salvation. Because Zenon’s porters were greedy, and jealously guarded their status as his servants, they did everything in their power to cut Sheridan out of the expected bounty they were to receive from “the Eye.” Upon arrival in Elamis they insisted he remain behind in their inn while they went to make the delivery.

A possibility Alia was prepared for, by passing the leafbird onto Sheridan. The mechanical bird followed Zenon’s porters all the way to a secret cavern in the mountain surrounding Elamis.

What she witnessed turned her stomach. Were it not for the porters’ greed, Sheridan might have shared in their grisly fate. And at her command no less.

For the porters she spared no pity; they were all too eager to do harm to the dryads. And their meeting yielded the boon of undeniable proof of the identity of “the Eye” mentioned in the letter of marque.

How was she to destroy this man?

One by one she explored and rejected possibilities. Nothing she came up with allowed her to strike effectively against him.

“Are you going to the festival?” a traveler sitting beside her in the dining room at the inn asked her this.

“Festival?”

“For the solstice, of course. You should see it …” the traveler went on and on, and Alia initially tuned her out, until she caught two words: the Protector.

The Protector would preside over the festival.

An idea took shape in her mind. First: consecrate her own killing ground. Any place Alia stood was a battleground, which meant she must protect the Wolf & Raven, the inn where she was staying.

On her way outside she caught Sheridan’s eye, but said nothing, lest it turn out someone was watching him.

The sun had risen fully then. The coolness of the air woke her up entirely, driving the last vestige of sleep from her. With a shiver Alia fastened her coat, turning her back to the wind. The tea, and rice porridge, still warmed her from the inside out, but the warmth would fade quickly if she didn’t get moving.

She turned now to face the city, taking it in for the first time. The inn sat back from a rise in the road that brought travelers from the first tier to the second tier of the city. Grey, gold, and white dominated the colors of the buildings, according to whether they were faced with marble or naked stone.

Golden sandstone gave the Wolf & Raven a sunny aspect, as well as a sturdy frame for its two stories. Accents of chrysoprase green enhanced its charm. Flower boxes hung outside the street-facing windows, the panes of which were tinted pale green. Each flower box boasted violet-green hellebores alongside yellow winter jasmine. A touch of home, eliciting a wistful sigh from Alia.

The inn looked so cozy a place to stay. Her enemies would not hesitate to re-purpose it as a slaughterhouse.

Alia looked up, and around. In the skyline, the white obelisk of Aletheia’s fane reigned over all. Nothing in the city matched its height.

Save for the citadel.

The Eye.

Inhabitants of the citadel could look upon the city and see everyone scurrying to and fro. No one approaching the citadel’s portal would do so unobserved. Doubtless, scryers lived within the citadel. Scryers who could look in their pools and mirrors to see what happened inside the homes below them.

Sheridan and Tregarde interrupted Alia’s reverie, falling into step beside her.

“Something more has happened,” Tregarde reported. “If you haven’t heard about it yet, you will soon enough. Someone murdered a man in Aletheia’s Fane. Could be a coincidence, except I hear he was an official scryer. Maybe your trick with the sarcophagus has ensnared more birds than you thought.”

They huddled in a copse of trees on the side of the road, away from casual listeners.

Close enough to the lake to hear its waves lap the shore. Obscured as the lake was by the mist, Alia caught a glimpse of the height rising from it, and the palace which crowned that height.

“Perhaps. But the protector is our main priority. Our enemy may suppose himself untouchably high, but we cannot entertain such illusion for ourselves. We better secure the inn,” Alia said.

Tonight was the winter solstice. The one night a year when Erebossa’s forces would wax strongest. Denizens of that shadowy realm would undoubtedly make themselves available to the wicked satrap ruling Elamis.

By no means would she let him catch her unprepared.

It was the work of an hour for Alia and Sheridan to set up a ward over the inn and its immediate surroundings. It took another hour to test and refine it before they were sure they could safely leave long enough to carry out vital errands.

Alia insisted she would not sit and wait for Erebossa’s agents to make the first move.

“Let us prepare a killing ground for them. Someplace where no innocents will be caught between us and our enemies. she wished to trap them, in a place of her own choosing.”

Setting up a divine trap required them to gather certain ingredients, and they spent their morning accordingly.

They separated an hour past noon. Night would come early, too early for her liking. She had too much to do and too little time to do it in.

“Spare no effort,” Alia told Sheridan before he left to carry out her orders.

Tregarde remained with her; she would need his help for this next part. Thanks to his previous scouting, she already knew what shop to visit. Threading her way through crowds of last-minute shoppers, she hurried to finish her last minute shopping.

“The man murdered in Aletheia’s temple—maybe he was innocent, maybe he wasn’t, but I’m willing to wager the place of his execution is no coincidence,” Alia said, stepping adroitly around a pair of men haggling with a rug merchant. “As a sorcerer, tell me what one would gain by desecrating a holy place.”

Tregarde’s sharp intake of breath made her halt her steps. His jaw worked, and his expression darkened. “Shadow magic is not my specialty, huntress.”

“Did I offend you, sorcerer? Make your best guess then.”

For a moment she thought he would not answer, but impatience drove her to continue making her way to the shop she sought.

From behind her Tregarde said, “Desecrating a sacred place is a way to open doors to Erebossa. For one thing, the spirit of the murder victim may be anchored there. And certain abyssals require their petitioners to corrupt sacred places or items. Best guess is this serves two purposes: cutting off the petitioner from divine aid, and allowing the abyssal to further its own goals.”

Trying to imagine the goals an abyssal might have only made Alia shudder. What might be an abstraction on any other day would likely become all too real, all too soon.

At last she came to the shop. A man looked up from the counter where he was pouring over some scrolls.

“Good afternoon to you,” the shopkeeper greeted.

Alia returned the greeting and said, “I was told your apothecary was my best option, that you keep prime stock here.”

The shopkeeper laughed, and looked over the list she handed him. “I shall not disappoint. Dried acacia, and almond oil? We have those in stock here.”

Neither the acacia nor the almonds were in season. Almond trees did not blossom until after the winter solstice, and the acacias would not return until spring.

For her plan Alia needed two evergreens for every one plant that died in autumn or winter. As well, she needed winter plants that died or went dormant in spring or summer.

“And the blackthorn berries, and hellebore buds?”

“Yes, those as well,” the shopkeeper assured her.

Ingredients in hand, they moved on. Alia headed for the temple of Aletheia. Tregarde took the lead here; Alia was still clinging to the idea that her cover might hold.

The archpriest kept looking at Alia as he walked them to the grotto. He eyed her as though he thought he might have seen her before. She frankly returned his stares, but he shook himself and focused on Tregarde instead.

“Nothing like this has ever happened before,” he was saying. “The echomancers say she—the killer—came here alone, and began to meditate in the grotto. Then a man showed up. Perhaps he was her master; he was dressed in finery.”

“Her master?” Alia asked, startled. The Lyrcanians did not keep slaves. After the Third Cataclysm, when the Gate to Pelasgos was destroyed, the Lyrcanians threw away many of the Pelasgian ways. They had to rely on each other, against the rapacious forces of Xia, and master and slave could not afford to be divided.

Reveling in their independence, the Lyrcanians did everything in their power to deny a foothold for the Pelasgians to reassert control over them, should they return. To that end, the Lyrcanians made a law granting freedom to any slave who made it onto Lyrcanian soil. Anyone attempting to keep their slave could be imprisoned for it.

A barbed arrow pointed at Pelasgians, Anshani, and now Rasena Valentians. One meant to discourage members of these kingdoms and empires from visiting Lyrcania in the first place. Any citizen of those lands who came to Lyrcania were obliged to swear an oath that they would leave those ways behind, and assimilate.

The archpriest eyed her warily. They’d stopped before the door of the grotto, which was roped off. A sign next to it proclaimed the area was closed to visitors.

“Indeed her master, young miss. However, if she was his slave, then perhaps he was unwise. A resentful and resourceful slave may find a way around a geis. Especially if the master is abusive. Though, the young woman did not look abused. And the echomancers believe both the victim and his murderer were connected to our protector in some way.”

He waved his hand over the door. Light shimmered, the door swung open, and the rope fell away.

He ushered them through, then followed them in. Alia looked around. No sign of any disturbance. The minty scent of hyssop pervaded her nose, indicating the priests must have purified the temple. Not a trace of blood remained, and the body had been moved. Frustration welled inside her, then she pushed it back as an idea came to her.

“Why do you think they were connected to the protector?” Tregarde asked.

The archpriest repeated the conversation, as heard by the echomancers. “Of course, the protector has nothing to do with this. Undoubtedly the man was—”

“What is this prophecy?” Alia demanded. Her stomach roiled. Hypothetically, a prophecy revolving around three women would exclude her. But since when were prophecies straightforward affairs?

The archpriest shrugged helplessly. “There is no knowing that.”

Still. Someone connected to the protector was looking for three women out to destroy him, and Alia at least was one woman with precisely that goal. Profound dread took residence in the pit of her stomach. The cover identity she had cultivated for herself was likely a figment of her imagination at this point; any prophet may have seen her in a vision.

Alia took out her Ellura Aura Detector from her satchel and handed it to Tregarde. While he worked, she hung back, her arms folded. In turn the priest watched them, openly curious, but saying nothing.

When the clicks ceased, Tregarde nodded. The leafbird collected auras, too. Including the aura of the woman who fed Zenon’s men to a horrific multi-headed dragon.

“It’s her,” he confirmed in low tones.

Yes, of course. The back of Alia’s neck prickled. For all her efforts to set a trap, she felt as if she were caught in the coils of a python. Her breath caught in her throat. With effort, she managed to force herself to stay calm.

“Let us see the body,” Alia said. “And if you have a likeness of the killer, show us that as well.”

The archpriest cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing, leading them instead to a small room.

Funerary preparations had not yet begun, obvious from the fact the victim still wore his own clothes. Someone—his killer?—had torn a strip off along the hem of his once-fine tunic. Blood stained the tunic’s left side, the only hint of violence.

From the bier where he lay, the man stared sightlessly up at them. Not wide-eyed in surprise; his eyes were simply open. Alia glanced at the archpriest, and he answered her unspoken question.

“He and his killer were just talking. The echomancers say she touched his heart through his tunic, and suddenly he died. No wait—first she said a spell. The Restorites say it was a spell of negation. She wished him to cease existing, and he did so.”

At this Tregarde cocked an eyebrow. “Neat trick, that.”

“Indeed,” the archpriest said dryly.

Alia’s fingers twitched, hovering over her satchel where she kept her iron stylus. If she could just get a blood sample … but not while the priest was in the room. However, she sensed he suspected her for some reason, so whatever she did would arouse suspicion. He would be sure to ask the echomancers or scryers to check on her activities.

And, well, her cover didn’t really exist anymore, if it ever truly had.

“Guileless One,” she began, “Did you notice the tool my friend used? It detects auras. What if I told you the woman who murdered this man is also responsible for abducting dryads?”

The archpriest paled. He clapped his hands together and touched the tip of his index fingers to his lips. After a moment he whispered, “So this was no singular act of depravity. We wondered what the time was coming to when a man could be struck down in a temple.”

His eyes hardened as he stared at her. Though she was not surprised, she was profoundly irritated when he said “You must leave this matter alone. We cannot have—”

Alia sighed impatiently, and he broke off, blinking in surprise. Did she have to pull rank? Or would he live up to the tenets of his goddess?

“What we have here is a question of truth, Guileless One. I don’t care about your politics. You don’t want toes stomped on, and you want to keep your head attached. Or perhaps you are selfless and you’re concerned about other people’s heads. Outsiders are on your list of people not to trust. Et cetera, et cetera.”

She reached into her bodice and pulled out her amulet. If he persisted in being stubborn she’d pull out her moonbow steel knives, but she hoped for his sake the amulet would suffice.

“Here,” she said, pressing it into his hand. “If you are not a false priest of your goddess, then you have the power to detect who I am and why I’m here. Let us save time, and show yourself worthy of the Truthsayer.”

He gaped at her. Tregarde leaned back against the bier where the body lay, his gaze bouncing from Alia to the archpriest.

“Huntress, you don’t understand—”

Alia’s lips thinned. What, Huntress help her, what magic words would make people lay aside their trifles and cooperate? What did it take?! True, an agent of a temporal power presented an immediate threat, more so than an agent of a divine power like herself.

But she hadn’t come to make threats. She exhaled, visibly trying to relax. With a cold smile and a tone of studied politeness she replied,

“Let us start again: does the amulet falsify what I have said, or verify it?”

The archpriest tore his gaze from her with obvious reluctance. He clasped the amulet between his palms, closing his eyes. After a moment, he gasped.

“By the gods,” he whispered. He opened his eyes and handed the amulet back to Alia. “Someone is using us, I think. But before we go further, I must have your word—your word, huntress.”

Alia held up a hand. “I swear by the Huntress I will not betray you.” She added, “And I will have the same vow of you, in the name of the Truthsayer.”

He held up his hand likewise, and made his vow in the name of Aletheia. He stepped past her, to the body.

“Formidable and insidious lies are woven all through this matter,” he began. “We know not the shape of things. What we know is that any word uttered by our protector lacks the ring of truth.”

Tregarde shook his head slightly, but held his tongue. Alia suspected he was holding back a cynical remark about politicians. Their lips were moving, ergo they were lying. But in this instance it would have been a stupid thing to say.

“Can you elaborate?” Alia asked.

“Take this curfew. We must all get to our homes before nightfall, lest the Watchmen arrest us. And for what purpose? Our safety, they say. The Watchmen say this, but they believe it not. Consider also the relations between us Truthseers and Protector Amavand. In times past, we sat high in the councils of the Protectors who ruled this city. Captains and generals relied upon us Truthsayers. In the past year or so, relations have…cooled, you might say.”

“These decrees, can you sense what the officials really meant, what they really believed when they spoke?” Alia wondered. If so, the protector would logically need to hold Aletheia’s priests and seers at bay.

The archpriest’s nostrils flared. He turned back from the body to face her again, his hazel eyes going cold.

“Our protector has been corrupted. Where once his duty was to care for his people, and protect them, he has now forsaken that duty and sought to deceive us instead. Dark forces are at work here; we all of us sense it. But beyond that—beyond that, I cannot say.”

Alia and Tregarde exchanged a glance.

“Be on your guard, Guileless,” she said. “I hunt a queen of Erebossa. Desecrating your temple may be her first volley against you, but if I understand anything about the Anshani, I don’t think this will be the last.”

“Oh?”

“The reverence for truth amongst the Anshani is legendary even in Lyrcania,” she said. “Think of this temple as a stronghold, and this queen and her minions are invaders who have burrowed tunnels beneath. This murder may not be the sum total of her offenses against you. If it pleases you, I would like to do a test.”

“By all means!”

No one reported an infernal spirit arising from the corpse. More, the corpse itself had not succumbed to a grotesque decay. Hopeful signs, then, the victim had not been corrupted by the ichor of the abyssal queen.

But in this matter, hope would not suffice, only certainty would do.

Alia took out her reagents from her satchel and followed the instructions Aric had given her.

“Ah, he’s clean. No infernal corruption in him.”

The archpriest looked on in fascination as she explained to him the point of the test.

Next she took out the blood codex. Given what she knew of Junius, and what Sheridan told her of Aristarchus, Alia supposed the ichor would be reserved only for the select few in the Lords of Chaos or the Brotherhood of the Jackal. The inner circle. But that didn’t mean the victim didn’t have connections.

The archpriest’s eyebrows flew up when he saw the blood codex, but he said nothing. Alia showed him the names written in it thus far.

“Disgusting business.” The archpriest wrinkled his nose. “To think so many people let an abyssal defile their own bodies!”

“Makes you wonder what the world is coming to, doesn’t it?” Tregarde said.

Without the man’s name, Alia was at a disadvantage. The echomancers only saw his life from the point where he entered the grotto. And further investigation was not likely, as priests of Aletheia no longer enjoyed right of entry to the protector’s palace.

Nevertheless, Alia risked writing unknown in the codex. Lines of names spread forth; none shared commonality with the other names in the codex. But they did share commonality with each other, enough to make her believe she was looking at a family tree.

The archpriest recognized one of the names. “Some of these names make me think of an old noble family here. They name their firstborn sons Gira. We will provide you with a likeness of the dead man; if you will be discreet in your inquiries.”

Alia readily agreed. The family would either close ranks against her, or make themselves useful. But even if she survived the solstice, she didn’t intend to ask too much of them. The murdered man’s family was not her prey; if she could help it she would not draw innocent people into matters where Erebossi were concerned. Somehow, she would have to come up with a story; something that would allow her to speak to them but would keep them from going to the protector.

The archpriest armed her with scrolls containing drawings of the victim and the murderer, with firm instructions not to open the scrolls until they were well away from the temple.

“Whatever eyes may be upon us, none can know that we gave you this,” the archpriest insisted.

Sheer compassion made Alia wait until she left the temple district to open the scrolls. Instead she went some ways into the park, coming to a stop at a bench by the lake. To Tregarde she handed the scroll with the victim’s likeness, while she examined the one with the killer’s.

“An excellent likeness,” Tregarde judged. “His family will believe he’s the corpse in the Hall of Truth when we break the news to them.”

“Yes,” Alia absently replied.

She recognized the murderer’s expression. The arrogance, the contempt, oh she knew that look well. The daughters of the archons wore it, too, back in Ebon Cove: the icy hauteur of one who saw everyone around her as either a servant or beneath her notice.

Such people made Alia’s blood run cold, for she was never sure they recognized that other people were in fact, people. Shame and guilt flooded Alia whenever her ignorance of customs inadvertently hurt someone’s feelings. But to not care about hurting other people at all? How was that possible?

This “Zephyra,” as Zenon’s doomed porters addressed her, knew she was untouchable. And she did not scruple against murder. The men also referred to her as “the handmaiden. A handmaiden to Protector Amavand, and likely, the Erebossan queen. Still worse, Alia saw in her a counterpart, when she considered the lengths she herself would go to in order to protect the dryads and the people of Ebon Cove. Zephyra applied similar ruthlessness in the service of Erebossa. Alia shuddered.

“She has cold eyes,” Tregarde said, misinterpreting Alia’s shudder.

“Tregarde—I must kill her. Negotiation is not an option. This vile woman belongs to the so-called queen and will not betray her, no matter what we say. So either we kill her, or accept that she will do worse than she has already done now.”

Tregarde straightened the collar on his duster and folded his arms. “I’m not keen on crossing paths with her myself, but let’s think about the situation here: we’re in a strange land with laws against strangers. This girl, this handmaiden, is high up here. Let’s say we kill her. What’s our exit route? Or do we die doing this? Because I thought we had plans beyond her?”

Alia took a deep breath. Ah. The girl’s temporal authority versus the divine one bestowed upon Alia by the Huntress. She looked out at the peacocks strutting on the green in the park. So impractically pretty, she thought. Yet they could still take flight when they needed to.

“Are you proposing we let her go?” she asked.

“I’m proposing that we have a strategy,” Tregarde said carefully. “This girl is every bit our enemy, no doubt about that. But the Huntress was never foolish about stalking Her prey, was She? Did She ever tell anyone to just stride into a dragon’s den?”

Alia lolled her neck, trying to ease the knots she hadn’t noticed before now. “I don’t suggest we do that, either,” she conceded. “But Tregarde, she is coming for us. The priest mentioned a prophecy about the protector, and I have the feeling I am in it. We are hunting her, and she is hunting us. If she enters our presence, we must either kill her or die. Mercy is not in her; I will not ask it of her. And tonight is the solstice.”

Tregarde drew closer to her, joining her in looking at the lake. “Here’s what we lack: the lay of the land, and allies. Fact is, if we lose against this Zephyra there’s no reserve waiting in the fortress. We’re it. You’re it. You’re the only one who can summon an astral, remember? That has to count for something.”

“Have you not served our Exalted Mother as faithfully as I have?” she faced him full on, meeting his gaze. “I know what some say about me. Do you think I am so much a zealot that I will get us killed just to destroy one enemy of the Huntress? That I would sacrifice our mission, let everyone else die, just to eliminate a single enemy?”

She studied his face, searching for signs of doubt, or derision. To her gratification, Tregarde met her eyes and did not look away. She could see him weighing her words.

“I never thought that of you,” he said at last. “If the rumors about you were true you would have to be an idiot. And you’re not. But I’m thinking as a sparrowhawk, and as a sparrowhawk this is the time to circle our prey. Not swoop in. Sparrowhawks don’t go after bigger birds, not usually. Nah, they flush out the smaller birds. You’re the golden eagle, miss priestess, and fit for bigger game, but I’m suggesting that for now we do this my way.”

“And the killing ground?” she asked.

Tregarde took her shopping basket from her hands. “I have an idea.”