Llewen went on mildly, “How goes your latest translation?”
“Well, Your Grace. Another two weeks of uninterrupted”—Penric made sure to emphasize that last word; Desdemona snickered silently—“work should see it ready to send out into the world after its sister volumes. I’m starting to think about its Ibran-language edition. Some recent medical texts in that tongue would be useful for reference, if they might be obtained for me. Helvia and Amberein gave me the Wealdean and Darthacan terminology, but Aulia of Brajar was no physician. And also, she may be out of date.”
The strange man’s hand clenched in impatience upon his knee. “Your Grace…” squeezed out between his lips, protest constricted by politeness, or perhaps the prudence of a man who hadn’t yet had his wish granted.
“Ah,” said the princess. “Permit me to introduce Senior Locator Oswyl, agent of the Father’s Order in Easthome. He is here, he tells me, on a mission of close pursuit, complicated by some very peculiar aspects, for which he earnestly begs the support of a sorcerer.”
Senior Locator was a title of a Temple Inquirer of middle rank; not the lowly man-at-arms of a mere Locator, nor the heights of an Inquirer or, more dizzyingly, Senior Inquirer, who were normally learned divines, but something betwixt and between. Although the name of his Order’s home chapter, from the royal capital itself, added some tacit clout. Penric sat up, interested, and offered the man a friendly smile and a little wave of his fingers. He did not smile back.
“And this is Penric, my sorcerer,” Princess Llewen went on, with a nod Pen’s way.
Oswyl’s eyes widened. In a voice of unflattering surprise, he said, “That’s your court sorcerer? I was expecting someone… older.”
And better dressed, perhaps? Penric was very fond of his hard-earned white robes of the Bastard’s Order, and wildly proud of his shoulder braids marking him as a divine and a sorcerer, but he had quickly learned not to wear them while at work. At least not when yoked with a demon of disorder with a questionable sense of humor. As a result, most days he went about the palace precincts looking the tattered clerk Oswyl had evidently taken him for. Since the palace denizens knew who he was by now, this was not usually a problem. He could turn himself out as a showy, and laundered, ornament to the court well enough when someone gave him warning…
Thinking of his incomplete translation, Pen stifled his leaping curiosity and offered, “You could try Learned Tigney of the Bastard’s Order on Stane Street. He is the master and bailiff of all Temple sorcerers in this archdivineship.” Not that this secretive company numbered many. Nor did that number include Penric, who owed fealty directly to the princess-archdivine in return for his late schooling.
“I started with Tigney. He sent me here,” growled the Grayjay, sounding frustrated. “I told him I needed someone powerful.”
“I trust,” murmured the princess, “you do not judge so quickly by appearances in your inquiries, Locator.”
Oswyl went a little rigid, but swallowed any attempt at answering this observation, yes or no being equally hapless choices.
Feeling faintly sorry for the man—he’d run into the sharp side of the princess’s tongue himself a time or two, though never without having earned it—Penric offered peaceably, “So what do you need this powerful sorcerer for, sir?”
The princess waved her beringed hand. “Tell the tale again, Locator. With a bit more detail this time, if you please. If something so dangerous has entered my lands, I need to understand it.”
Oswyl took a long breath, of a man about to recount the same story for, by Pen’s guess, the third time in a day. At least it ought to be well-practiced. He at last addressed Penric directly: “What do you know of the Wealdean royal shamans?”
Penric sat back, or aback. “Not… a great deal. I’ve never met one in person. Their society is engaged in an attempt to recover something of the Old Weald forest magics, thought to be stamped out in the conquests of Great Audar. Except brought under the disciplines of the Temple, this time.”
The Darthacan conquest of the Weald had taken three hard-fought generations, five hundred years ago; three generations later, Audar’s empire had all fallen apart again in internal discord. But when the Darthacan tide receded, the Temple remained, and the old forest tribes, shattered and scattered as much by the passage of time and the progress of the world as by Darthacan arms, never reestablished themselves. Why the restored, if much changed, Wealdean hallow kings had sponsored this antiquarian revival when they had perfectly good Temple sorcerers at their disposal, Penric did not know, although the interested scholar in him felt a sneaking approval.
“The shamans’ magic is a human creation, or at least, rising from the world instead of descending, or escaping, from a god as demons do,” Penric went on. “In the old forests, tribal shamans were said to invest their warriors with the spirits of fierce animals, to endow them with that strength and ferocity in battle. The making of a shaman partook of this, only more so. The spirits of animals were sacrificed into others of the same kind, generation after generation, piled up until they became something more, Great Beasts. Invested at last into a person, the spirit of such a creature brought its powers to him not”—he cleared his throat—“not unlike the way a demon of the white god does for a sorcerer. Despite the very different origins of the gifts.”
Humph, said Desdemona, but did not contradict this.
As Penric drew breath, the princess held up a stemming hand. “Penric is quite fond of reading, and will happily share all he learns. But perhaps not all at once? Go on, please, Locator.”
The Grayjay pressed his forehead, as though it ached, and grimaced. “Right. The first the Father’s Order at Easthome was told of this case was after that mess at the funeral, which was late off the mark. We should have been called out when they first found the body. Howsoever. I was dispatched to investigate and report on a suspicious death at the estate of one of the minor branches of the kin Boarford family, about ten miles outside of the capital. Not home of the earl-ordainer, thankfully, although for that I suppose they would have sent a more senior man.
“As I—eventually—worked out the chain of events, one of the scions of the family, a young man with military ambitions named Tollin kin Boarford, had purchased a wild boar captured alive from some hunters. He’d kept it for some weeks in a sty on the estate. His older brother thought that he had plans for some boar-baiting show, because instead of making any attempt to tame it, he teased it to make it wilder. Although I suppose either plan would have been equally stupid. But when Tollin was found one morning in the sty, shirtless and with his belly ripped open, and the boar bled dry with a knife in its throat, it seemed to the servants and family death by plain misadventure. The boar was butchered and fed to the dogs. Tollin’s body was washed and wrapped and made ready for his funeral rites at the old family temple on the estate, conducted by the local divine.
“Which was where everything went wrong, because none of the funeral animals signed that any god had taken up his soul, not the Son of Autumn, which would have been expected, not the Bastard, nor any other. As far as his family could tell, he had become a sundered ghost, and no one knew why. The divine, finally, sent for help.”