As she struggled to her feet, dizzy and disoriented, the beast swiped at her with its forepaws, its claws slashing across her unprotected side, ripping through fabric and flesh as if both were butter. Closing her eyes against the pain, Irulan let her other senses guide her, spinning with the blow and lashing out, her own claws raking ineffectually against the creature’s tough hide.
With an indignant bellow that Irulan felt more than heard, the dragonhound slapped her to the floor, pinning her arms with its middle set of limbs as it brought its four massive horns to bear. But the beast could not know its foe was as much animal as human. With a howl of her own, Irulan brought her knees up and kicked out with all her remaining strength, the long claws on her sandaled feet stabbing into the creature’s exposed underbelly.
Screeching, the monster reared up and back, batting her legs away from its abdomen as it prepared to blast her again with its cacophonous roar.
Exhausted, nearly deaf, and bleeding profusely from her own wounds, Irulan knew she could not avoid the full fury of the beast’s breath a second time. Commending her soul to the Flame, she clambered up on all fours, intending to die on her feet, when a high, feminine voice that she knew she should not be able to hear somehow pierced the fog of agony in her brain.
“Skaravojen, hold!”
Baring its sharp teeth at her, the creature obeyed, sinking down into a sitting position, while its owner, a young dark-haired, dark-skinned girl in a simple gray shift stepped up beside it and scratched behind its ears.
“Good boy.”
The girl regarded Irulan curiously as the shifter rose unsteadily to her feet. Her stone-colored eyes took in Irulan’s wounds, the wild look in her eyes, and the long, sharp claws that shed crimson drops with her every shuddering breath.
“Hold,” she said again, softly, and to Irulan’s surprise, she could not only hear the girl clearly, but she found herself becoming calmer, her breathing slowing, steadying, the adrenaline draining out of her muscles. Without intending to, she shifted, her claws retracting. Magic, she thought as she straightened to stand, but she felt no compulsion on her. Rather, she simply felt safe. At peace.
Though the girl did not touch her, Irulan could feel strength flooding through her, and the pain in her side and head abated, replaced with a spreading warmth.
“Skaravojen and I do not usually wander these halls, but today I felt drawn here, almost as if the Voice were whispering to me, guiding my feet. Now I know why.”
At her words, Irulan realized, belatedly, who the girl must be. She fell to her knees, her forehead pressed against the cool marble floor.
“Your Holiness,” she said, awestruck, as she knelt before Jaela Daran, the Keeper of the Flame.
“And this packet you were unable to show Cardinal Riathan-may I see it?”
They were seated in a private sitting room, deep in the heart of the Cathedral. Jaela had led her here after her encounter with Skaravojen, finding a servant to bring Irulan fresh clothing along the way. She’d allowed the shifter to clean up in a small washroom that connected to the parlor, and now they sat on comfortable chairs in front of a black marble fireplace, their feet resting on a white bearskin rug. The room, like Jaela herself, was simple and unadorned, save for a masterwork tapestry that hung above the mantle. The luxurious wall hanging depicted a collage of all the previous Keepers, from Maliah Sharavaci to Jaela’s predecessor, Lavira Tagor. Tiny silver flames traced the tapestry’s borders, seeming to flicker in the light of floating everbright lanterns, and at first Irulan thought the effect was the work of magewrights, but closer examination revealed that the only magic was in the shuttles of the craftsmen who had woven the intricate piece. Set below the Cathedral’s main floor, the room had no windows, and a faint humming seemed to emanate from the walls. It took Irulan several moments to realize what it was she must be hearing-the roar of the Silver Flame itself, muted by distance and thick stone walls.
At the Keeper’s request, Irulan handed over the packet she had guarded so vigilantly since she left Aruldusk. Skaravojen looked up from his place near Jaela’s feet, blinking his small silver eyes in her direction before putting his head back down, apparently asleep. But Irulan could sense the creature’s alertness, and she knew that, even though Jaela had healed her monstrous hound when she had healed Irulan, he would relish the opportunity to pay her back for the pain she’d inflicted on him. The slightest move in the wrong direction would have the magebred pet at her throat again before she could so much as scream, and this time the Keeper might not be quick enough to stop him.
Jaela took the packet from Irulan’s outstretched hand and opened it, shaking its contents gently onto her palm. A tuft of ivory fur floated down to land softly on her chocolate-colored skin.
The Keeper examined the fur for a moment, then looked at Irulan quizzically.
“It was found on the body of one of the victims, Your Holiness, a minor noble whose death left his three children orphans.” Irulan couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice-she knew how those poor children felt, and what they now faced. “This was not the noble my brother supposedly killed, but one who was killed a week later.”
“And you believe this fur belongs to the murderer?”
“I do, Your Holiness, though I can’t prove it. It was caught beneath the man’s fingernails, probably while he was trying to defend himself.”
The Keeper did not ask how she came to be in possession of the tuft, for which Irulan was grateful. Somehow, she did not relish recounting her stint as a grave robber to the spiritual leader of the entire Church.
“I took it to a friend of mine, a bounty hunter from House Tharashk, but he couldn’t determine its origin. I didn’t have the money to have it checked for spells, but I’d be willing to bet it can’t be traced magically, either.”
Jaela returned the fur to its packet and handed it back to Irulan.
“I can have it tested, but if a Finder had no luck with it, I’m not sure if the wizards here will be any more successful.”
She sat back in her chair, chin on fist, a frown creasing her forehead. Irulan was abruptly saddened by the deep lines she saw there. No child should have to bear the weight those lines spoke of-at least not alone. So many thoughts of children could not help but bring Javi to mind, and she swallowed the familiar lump of guilt thinking of him always evoked. She had tried to watch out for him, but she was barely more than a youngling herself when their parents died, and certainly not equipped to be a surrogate mother to such a wild cub.
“Tell me again what it is you hope to prove with this … evidence.”
Irulan leaned forward, eager to turn her thoughts toward something other than her own shortcomings. The sudden movement earned her a one-eyed glare from Skaravojen.
“Well, for one thing, Your Holiness-”
“Jaela, please. Or ‘my lady,’ if you must insist on an honorific.”
“My lady,” Irulan acceded. “If the fur does belong to the murderer-and why else would it be cloaked so thoroughly from even a Finder’s detection? — then it rules out every shifter in the Bishop’s custody. Including my brother Javi.”
“How so?”
“Fur this color is very unusual. A white-haired or blond shifter would stand out like the Flame in the pits of Khyber, if you’ll pardon the analogy. They might be common in places far colder than Khorvaire, but I’ve never seen a shifter with that coloring, not in Thrane, not even in the Reaches where I grew up. And certainly not in the jail cells of Aruldusk.”
“I see.” The Keeper bit her lip as she thought it over, reminding Irulan again how very young she actually was. “And you informed Bishop Maellas of this?”
“I did, my lady.” The Bishop had been … less than appreciative. Or rather, his Ancillary, Xanin, had-she hadn’t even been allowed to talk with Maellas. But she assumed Xanin spoke for the Bishop. He’d certainly implied as much.