After a short walk, Tris found a building with heavy rusting chains attached to all four corners. As the large sign in front of the building had an orange pig rolling its eye slyly, Tris assumed that this was the place he was looking for.
He stepped inside, and almost retreated at the press of noisy people. On the far side of the room, a sultry woman slid through a doorway bearing a tray filled with brimming mugs. Surmising that the innkeeper would also be behind the doorway, Tris began to work his way through the room.
He was only partially through the tavern when someone caught at his sleeve. He spun around to see a man in leather armor pointing mutely to the far end of a long table.
Tris’s gaze followed the gesture, to discover Laeth and Marri trying to push their way through the crowded pathway. Laeth was trying to say something, but the noise in the room prevented any sound from carrying even such a short distance.
When the two managed to make it to where Tris waited, he started back to the main door. Only when they were outside did anyone try to talk.
“Tris, what are you doing here?” asked Laeth. “Where’s Rialla?”
“Somewhere in a Darranian forest, I hope,” replied Tris wearily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I need to deliver these,” he slipped the books out of his tunic and pulled the dagger from the sheath he normally used to carry his own knife, “to the Spymaster, Ren, then I need to get back to Rialla. Can you help me find him?”
“Why didn’t you bring Rialla with you?” queried Marri.
“Winterseine and his son were following us. Rialla thought that she could evade them until I could bring these here; after all the trouble we went to, it would have been a shame to have to return them.” Tris knew that it was overly easy to read his concern for Rialla in his voice, but he was too weary to disguise it.
“I could take the package to Ren,” offered Laeth.
“That would leave you free to return. If you can describe where you are, I can get some friends together and ride after you with reinforcements.”
Tris was tempted, but shook his head. “No. The journal I brought needs explanation. It would take me as long to explain it to you as him—and I can make him believe me. If you can take me to Ren, I’ll get this over with.”
“Right,” said Laeth. “Follow me.”
He led the way through the streets to a large building that was probably as old as the city. Centuries of minor additions had made the building look lopsided and disordered. The stone steps inside were worn with the weight of generations of feet. Laeth knocked briskly on a scratched wooden door.
“Go away!” ordered a voice from within firmly. “I filed the report yesterday.”
Laeth looked at Tris and shrugged before opening the door and peering in. “It’s only me,” he said with his head inside the door.
Tris trailed Laeth and Marri into the room. The enclosed space smelled musty, as if it hadn’t received fresh air in a long time. Seated behind a desk too large for such a small room, a frail-looking man was running his fingers through his thinning hair.
A second man had been seated comfortably on a padded chair facing the desk, but when he saw a woman enter the room, he came to his feet. Tris knew that his eyes had widened, but he’d never seen a man dressed in such a manner—not even among the more foppish Darranian nobles. The man’s expensive leather boots were dyed a hideous shade of orange, contrasting with emerald-green velvet trousers trimmed in orange lace. The man’s tunic was also mostly emerald-green, except for the long, flowing orange sleeves. His hair was curled in ringlets that descended to his shoulders in a cascade any woman would have been proud to claim.
“Ah, what a pleasure to be interrupted by such a lovely visitor,” he said, stepping forward to kiss Marri’s hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Kisrah.”
Before anyone had a chance to respond, the man behind the desk, who Tris assumed was the Spymaster, came to his feet as well. “Laeth, I told you that I had someone scouting Winterseine’s holdings looking for Rialla. I will tell you when I have news.”
“I have news for you, sir,” answered Laeth, blithely ignoring the irritation in the Spymaster’s voice, even as he deftly pulled Marri behind him and away from Lord Kisrah.
Tris narrowed his eyes at the human peacock. “Lord Kisrah,” he said slowly, “the Archmage.”
Kisrah bowed formally. “The same.”
Ren cleared his throat and took charge. “I am Ren,” he announced firmly. “This young idiot is Laeth, sometime Darranian lordling and currently mercenary of Sianim.” Somehow Ren managed to make the second title the more imposing.
His voice softened as he continued, “With him is Lady Marri, widow of Lord Karsten of Darran, and soon to be Laeth’s bride. Lord Kisrah has done us the courtesy of introducing himself, and I am not sure who you are, sir.” He directed the last toward Tris.
“I am Tris,” replied the healer. “Sometime healer of Tallonwood, currently messenger for one Rialla, slave turned horse trainer turned spy. I have several things to deliver to the Spymaster of Sianim.”
Tris handed Ren the books and pulled Laeth’s dagger from the boot sheath he normally used to carry his own knife. “The dagger is the one used to kill Karsten. Rialla and I found it in Winterseine’s keep.”
Lord Kisrah gestured, and Ren gave him the dagger. The Archmage curled his fingers around the hilt and muttered a phrase. “Winterseine held the pommel when it last killed—but I didn’t know Lord Karsten. I’ll have to have something of his to confirm he was the man who died. I have to confess, however, I am curious how you expect to get a Darranian court to believe the word of a magician.”
“Rialla was confident that Ren was capable of such a feat,” replied Tris briskly, “but we found something that might help. The larger book is Winterseine’s grimoire, conveniently embossed with his seal—complete except for a few pages of vellum that slid out as we escaped.”
Kisrah took the book Tris extended. As soon as he touched it, his casual interest became intense. He held the book for a moment then set it on Ren’s desk. “What did you do with those pages?” The indolent manner that had characterized him until that moment was gone. In its place was the powerful presence that belonged to the ae’Magi.
“They were impregnated with magic to the extent that I was not sure they were safe to touch. When they fell out of the book, I destroyed them, rather than leave them for Winterseine’s use.”
“Destroyed them? How?” asked Lord Kisrah, his face white and shaken.
“With magic, Lord Kisrah, how else?” Tris’s eyebrows rose.
“Ah, well,” said Ren, “at least they are not in Winterseine’s hands. What is the small book?”
“That,” said Tris, “is the most interesting item we retrieved. Rialla says you are concerned about a prophet who is planning to take over our lands.”
“The book implicates my uncle?” said Laeth without surprise.
Tris shook his head. “It’s the private journal of the Voice of Altis. You would know him better as Terran.”
Laeth and Marri looked at Tris in astonishment; the others obviously didn’t know who Terran was.
“My cousin Terran?” asked Laeth incredulously.
“Winterseine’s son,” said Ren.
Lord Kisrah stiffened. “Winterseine’s son is not a mage. I was there at his testing.”
“No,” agreed Tris blandly, “Terran is not a mage, he is a prophet.”
“Winterseine’s using his magic to allow his son to declare himself a prophet.” Ren’s disbelief was obvious.
“No,” said Tris again, “Terran is a prophet of Altis—at least Rialla and I think so.”
“Gods,” swore Laeth in a soft tone.