I hope you know what you’re doing, Hamil told him silently. The halfling looked up at the lich and said, “I don’t suppose you know where the missing pages are, do you?”
The lich looked down at Hamil, his jaw clicking. “I have known for centuries, but potent countermeasures obstruct me. They should pose less of an obstacle for the living. The missing pages lie in the vaults of the Irithlium in Myth Drannor.”
Geran stared at the lich, dumbfounded. Myth Drannor was the one place in the world he could never go again, but before he could begin to frame a protest, Aesperus raised his iron staff, silently regarding each of Geran’s companions in turn, and dissolved back into mist again. “Summon me when you have brought the pages I seek. Do not long delay, young Geran. Doom draws near, and you will need my aid.”
The lich vanished, and silence fell over the barrowfields.
TWELVE
3 Alturiak, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
The Council Guard soldiers came for Mirya in the middle of the night. She was awakened from a fitful sleep by the sound of her cottage’s door breaking open, the angry shouts of the harmach’s soldiers, and their heavy, armored footsteps thundering over the old floorboards. She sat up and started to swing her legs out of the bed with some half-formed notion of fleeing out the back door, but the bedroom door flew open and several soldiers with bared steel in their hands surged forward to seize her. She was dragged stumbling from the bed to the kitchen, where a Council Guard sergeant she didn’t know waited by the banked fire.
“Who are you? What’s this all about?” Mirya managed.
“Shut up, you!” one of the soldiers holding her snarled. He cuffed her across the mouth with the back of his mailed gauntlet-not with his full strength, since no bones broke and her teeth all stayed where they belonged, but still hard enough to buckle her knees and split her lip. Dizzy, she sagged in the soldiers’ grip until they stood her upright again.
“Mirya Erstenwold, we’ve got a writ for your arrest,” the sergeant said. “You’re accused of conspiracy, harborin’ spies, and committin’ acts of rebellion ’gainst the harmach.”
“No-” she began to protest, but a hard look from the soldier who’d hit her brought her protest to a quick end. Then the Council Guards marched her out the door to a waiting wagon and shoved her inside, slamming the door of iron bars shut behind her. In the space of a few heartbeats the wagon was jouncing and rocking as it rolled down the lane back toward the center of town. Mirya huddled inside her nightshirt, trying to make sense of what had happened and where they might be taking her. The night air was cold and dank, and a sour old smell clung to the wagon’s interior. She could hear the clatter of hoofbeats on cobblestones from the team drawing the wagon, the harsh commands of the driver and the sharp flick of the lash, the creaking and jingling of the soldiers’ armor and the wagon’s springs.
Thank the gods that Selsha wasn’t home, she thought dully. She didn’t think the soldiers would have dragged in a girl not even ten years of age yet, but the whole scene would have terrified her daughter beyond words. She had no idea what was about to become of her, but at least Selsha was safe with the Tresterfins.
The wagon finally rattled to a stop. Two more Council Guards unlocked the door and dragged her out. She caught a single glimpse of their surroundings, and recognized the silhouette of the Council Hall’s decorated eaves in the dim orange light of the streetlamps. Then she was ushered inside and down a flight of stairs to the guardrooms below the hall proper. She’d been this way once before, when Geran had been arrested at his cousin Sergen’s order and held here. The guards led her past several cells that were already occupied; she recognized half a dozen of her neighbors, including the bearlike Brun Osting, who was stretched out unconscious on his cell floor. She doubted that they’d brought him in without a fight. The young brewer’s face was a mass of blood and bruises, but two of his kinfolk-fortunately Halla was not among them-were tending to him in the cell. Torm guard us all, she thought. Marstel’s soldiers have caught half the resistance tonight!
The guards came to an empty cell and shoved her in. “Enjoy your stay,” one snarled at her. Then the door slammed shut, its heavy iron bolt sliding shut. Mirya picked herself up off the flagstones, and crawled off to curl up in one corner of the cold stone chamber. Her mouth ached where she’d been struck, and she touched her lip gingerly. I’ll count myself lucky if that’s the worst I have to show for this, she thought.
Hours passed as she waited in the cold cell. To judge by the sounds she heard echoing down the halls, the council dungeons were bustling with activity this night. Doors creaked open and slammed shut, guards moved around with heavy footsteps and jingling mail, voices shouted in protest or suddenly cried out in pain. She found herself cringing at each new outburst, wondering who’d been caught and what was happening to them. Just when Mirya was beginning to wonder if she’d simply been forgotten, she was roused by the sound of keys turning in the lock of her cell. A pair of Council Guards let themselves in, and without speaking a word to her, simply grabbed her by the arms and hustled her out the door.
“What is it?” Mirya asked. “Where are we going?” But her jailers didn’t answer. They showed her into a small, windowless room, sat her down in a sturdy wooden chair in its center with her arms behind her back, and bolted her manacles to a shackle in the floor. Then the two of them took station behind her.
A short time after that, the room’s door opened again, and a short, broad-shouldered officer with sandy hair and a stern frown fixed over his small goatee entered the room. She recognized him as Edelmark, the captain of the Council Guard; they’d never met, but she’d seen him a few times. A clerk followed him in, taking a seat in the corner and laying out a quill and parchment by a small writing desk there.
Edelmark regarded her in silence for a moment before taking a seat behind a wooden table and setting his helm-the brow marked by a device of a golden stag-on top. “Well, what are we to do with you?” he finally said.
Mirya wasn’t entirely sure that the question was meant for her, but she did her best to meet his steely eyes without cringing. “I suppose that depends on what you think I’ve done,” she replied. If Edelmark knew about her involvement in the resistance, then he had ample reason to have her executed at once. She and her small band had struck several times in the last few tendays, and blood had been spilled more than once. On the other hand, it was just barely possible that she’d been swept up with the rest on suspicion alone, and that she might still walk free.
Edelmark studied her without expression. “I think that you’re one of the people behind some of the little troubles we’ve seen of late, which makes you quite possibly a rebel, a murderer, and a traitor. Any one of those things would be ample grounds for me to have you hanged at dawn. On the other hand, I’m a reasonable fellow. If you’re honest with me and simply explain what part you’ve played in some of these events, I’ll urge Harmach Marstel to exercise leniency in your case. You have an opportunity to make up for whatever misjudgments you might have made lately. I sincerely suggest that you take it.”
A chill ran down Mirya’s spine. A small, frightened part of her whimpered and begged to throw herself on Edelmark’s mercy, hoping that she might save herself by doing as he asked. But she guessed that Edelmark’s definition of “mercy” probably did not extend to letting her go, not after the part she’d played in Hulburg’s incipient resistance. And she’d never be able to live with herself if she offered someone else to face justice-well, Harmach Marstel’s so-called justice-in her place. She simply shook her head. “I’ve done nothing wrong,” she told him.