31. Words of Warning

“Killing the clan of Chief Halar proved both more and less difficult than I had imagined. On one hand, I had thought I would not be able to achieve it all, while on the other hand, even with immortality on my side, it was a brutal and laborious process.

Unlike Agrak, I do not possess swift speed and razor claws. My bones and muscles were already frail and old by the time I had managed to preserve them.

I stalked through the clan while they were sleeping, wielding a sharp knife, but any time I was met with resistance, or flight, I struggled to find the strength to overpower my opponents, or to pursue them.

Eventually, I reached the flamelit enclosure where Halar sat alone.

‘Do you remember me, shaman?’ he had asked. His head was long and narrow, and his skin was more yellow than green. ‘I remember you. You told me I had promise.’

I did not remember the Chief. But I had helped birth and teach countless hatchlings through all my many Moons.

‘And now here you are to kill me,’ he bitterly added. ‘To kill so many you brought from the Pool. And for what reason, Izzig…?’

‘You are rebelling.’

‘What is there to rebel against, shaman? A useless usurper. You should have stood against him, and many would have followed. Now you are the treacherous one. Hands stained with the blood of those you should have protected.’

I stood staring at the Halar, who crouched on the floor near a burning brazier.

‘No matter,’ he added. ‘The more you kill, the more will need to be killed.’ He pushed to his feet, then towering over me, casting a monstrous shadow. ‘I always hoped we would meet again, shaman. You were the first face I saw, and now you are the last.’

I tried to speak, but Halar snatched away my blade and jammed it into himself.

Moments passed in regret and confusion, while the dead visage of Halar stared up at me. And then I did remember him. The lanky hatchling who I thought would be a Chief. And I suffered a most terrible guilt.”

“Quite a late hour to be reading, is it not?”

Sybille looked up from scrawled vellum pages. “And too cold to be walking about naked, as well, I would think.”

Luta shrugged, causing her nightgown to shimmer in the candlelight. “This is hardly naked. Especially when considered against your father’s own night habits. He seems not to note the cold at all.”

They were both in the marble library, surrounded on all sides by the looming shadows of bookcases. Sybille sat at a table lit by the light of a single grey candle. She had the odd thought that this young woman was very shapely, and an odder sensation of unease. “I have no wish to hear of night habits.”

Luta smiled. “No…? No, I suppose not. Does my brother not wonder where you are?”

Sybille returned to her reading, and studied a passage without grasping meaning. “Perhaps if his memory is short.”

“That’s a roundabout way of saying he knows.”

“That’s an honest answer to a question asked.”

“There’s an irony here.” Luta’s soft steps were pronounced in the shadowed library, underscoring her gown’s hush. “I wish to stay with your father, but he wakes screaming then pushes me away. My brother, I assume, wishes to stay with you, and you’re on your own reading… eschewing his company.”

Sybille offered no answer, despite reaching a dozen that were all scathing or cruel.

Luta came to stand behind her chair. Heat caressed Sybille’s ears and neck. “You don’t much like me, do you?”

Sybille had an urge to push back, and send her stumbling. “I do not know you.”

“And you have made no effort to know me.”

Sybille’s laugh was quiet. “Has it escaped your notice that those I know, save for my father—who I may not truly know at all—have ended up dead? Perhaps I have acted with your best interests at heart. Perhaps an effort can be made both ways. I am here, at most hours, which should make it easy enough for you. Had I tried to seek you out, I wouldn’t know where to start… at least not at any place where I wouldn’t run into my father.”

“So it is him that you avoid?” Luta murmured in assent then leaned over her shoulder. “What are you reading?”

Sybille’s thoughts flitted from lust to violence. “Nothing of interest.” She shifted out of her seat, forcing a smile. “I’ve decided I’m too tired to read. Good night, Luta.”

“A moment,” Luta implored. “Surely you can spare me that…?”

Sybille turned back to a fine dress made sheer by candlelight. She lifted her gaze to a gleaming pair of curious eyes. “A moment for what, exactly?”

“I wanted to show you a book. Unless you’ve read it… it’s ‘The Improvised History of Everything’.” Luta smiled. “It’s a magical tome, you see. Dangerous. If you ask for a topic it will tell you what is, or what will soon be.”

Sybille sighed, smiling in resignation. “I have no mind towards children’s tales.”

“It’s right here.” Luta strode forward, between a pair of bookcases, pausing at a column along the marble wall. “Do come and have a look. It’s a family secret, but you’ll be family soon enough.”

“Very well,” Sybille assented, stepping forward to meet her. She felt unusually warm in her airy white dress. “But I’m not sure that I truly understand the jest.”

Luta pressed against the stone, and a block clicked inward. “It’s no joke.” A piece of the column slid away to reveal a square alcove where a dusty tome rested upon a golden pedestal. “Or perhaps it is… but it tells the truth often enough. You’ll see what I mean… come here—here, help me carry it.”

Sybille helped her, still wary, and they carried the heavy book towards the table.

Both women seemed to fear trapped fingers so it landed with a thud and sent up a cloud of dust. Golden lettering had been worked into a red leather cover.

“How very odd,” said Sybille.“You told the title true.”

Luta narrowed her eyes. “Odd that I told the truth… or?”

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“Take any meaning you please.”

“Ah… my brother said you were cold.”

“It seems odd to me that not being warm makes one cold.”

“So you’re tepid, then?”

“I’m Sybille.”

“Luta.” She bowed with all formality. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

Sybille frowned, lifting the cover from The Improvised History of Everything. It thudded to the tabletop and swept up yet more dust. She flipped through the pages, smooth and golden, unblemished and unmarked. “That’s a deal of effort your family go through to hide a book with nothing written in it.”

Luta nodded. “What was it you were hoping to read about?”

“I had no hopes at all. Anything would have sufficed.” Sybille watched in silence as dark ink seeped into the golden pages, forming into flourished script. “What…?” She smiled in confusion. “I’m not sure—”

“What’s there to be unsure about?” Luta asked. “‘Anything is a word best followed by “and everything.”’” She paused. “Who is Sybille?” She waited for ink to fade and for more to appear in place. “‘Sybille is a sister that saw her brothers as two halves of the same coin: Gudmund, their father. Agnar had his cruel humour, rashness, and quick wit, while Geirmund inherited his thoughtfulness, stubbornness, and rare patience. She believed that both brothers had borrowed from their uncle Grettir as well, who was a savage looking man with a gentle soul.’”

Sybille’s pale visage had no warmth to it. “Is this supposed to be some cruel trick?”

“‘Sybille was a young woman that wondered who she was,’” Luta continued, tone curious. “‘Her grandmother’s double, perhaps. Or the unwanted runt in a family of wolves, who brought about the death of the proud matriarch.’” She paused, glancing up from the scrawled pages, and smiled as if sympathetic. “I didn’t know your mother had died in childbirth.”

Sybille wanted to strike her, to leave, or to slam the cover closed. “What does Luta fear most?”

Luta’s laugh was stilted.

“‘Luta is the cruel daughter of a scorned wife. She fears being discarded, abandoned to die unloved and alone.’”

“The book is not usually so truthful.” Luta sighed. “And Sybille’s fear?”

“‘Sybille has had her worst fears carved out with her heart,’” Sybille read, her words slowed by regret. “‘She still manages to worry for the health and happiness of her father.’”

“Ah.” Luta drummed her fingers on the table. “Perhaps we should stop there.”

Sybille upturned her palms. “Why does Luta want to stop?” She kept her steady gaze towards a lovely face that seemed sorrowed in the candlelight. “It’s your book. If you wish to close it, go ahead.”

Luta barely nodded before closing the tome. “‘She wants to stop because her heart is beating and bleeding and she is so very afraid.’ That is what was written, Sybille. Does the knowledge gladden you?”

“Why are you asking me?” Sybille bowed her head to blow out the twisted candle. “Good night, Luta. I pray that Muradoon wards you from that cursed tome. The truth, the real truth, will bring you nothing but misery.”

***

Jarl Thrand’s workroom was beyond expansive, with wide tiled floors and a high vaulted ceiling. The marble expanse made the sparse furnishing appear small, and would have echoed any words spoken. There were none though, beyond the thoughtful murmurings of an old man as he scratched a quill against paper or dipped it into a well.

Three chairs faced the large and orderly desk that Thrand sat at. Each piece made of the same black wood that almost faded into the darkness of the room.

The night beyond the tall windows, and the wide balcony, lay cold and clouded.

Stub candles, soon to drown, were scattered across drawers along the walls, hinting towards the breadth of the room. Tall candles, freshly lit, towered above the papers and ledgers stacked and weighted atop the desk.

Jarl Thrand sighed, setting down his quill. “What is it, Atsurr?”

Atsurr stood opposite, amid shadows, as he had for a long while. “I spoke no words.”

“Nor did you choose a subtle place to stand.”

Atsurr grunted. “You are up late.”

“As are you.”

“The fat guard has disappeared.”

“Yes,” Jarl Thrand agreed. “Gudmund mentioned as much this morning. He was murdered by the Crooked Teeth.”

“Do you not find that odd?”

“Gudmund barely leaves the Estate. I expect they knew of no one else to strike at.”

“And what reason would they even have to strike?”

Jarl Thrand’s eyes narrowed. “Do you ask that in earnest, Atsurr? You stood as witness when he slew a number of their ilk outside of my gates.” He sighed. “You did forget, then. Perhaps you should return to your duties as my guardian… or perhaps you should retire.” He raised a hand to halt reply. “I say that not out of malice, but out of concern. Your judgement slips, old friend. I do not doubt your skill with a sword, but I would not want to see that sword misused because you forgot facts that should be plainly seen.”

Atsurr paused in silence. “And what of the girl?”

“Sybille?”

“No.”

Jarl Thrand snickered. “What of her?”

“Do you not find it odd that a young woman arrives and seek your affections when the city rests on a knife’s edge?” Atsurr asked. “A knife that she could easily hold?”

“She is searched each time we meet. And, no, I do not find it odd when a woman seeks my affections. I am rich and powerful. What more reason would they need than that?”

“It is my belief that Gudmund now works with the Black Hands. That the woman is part of the plot. And they each, one and all, conspire to murder you and all your line.”

“Even Luta?” Thrand asked. “That would be a misstep on Gudmund’s part.”

“The weddings are not arranged.”

“They soon will be,” the Jarl answered. “Luta will marry Gudmund and Thrand will marry Sybille on the same day.”

“If you speak the truth then you have given him all the more reason to kill you. You will have given this city to him on a golden platter.”

“Do you so doubt me?” Jarl Thrand bared his teeth in a cruel smile. “Gudmund will be poisoned on the night of his wedding. He will die in the fashion of Jarl Adelsteinn. If Sybille suspects, she will have little recourse. And if she does attempt anything rash, she will live the life of a caged bird with broken wings.”

Atsurr grunted. “I have mistook the situation.” He paused. “If it please you, I would return as your personal guard. I would not see events upset before they come to pass.”

“I would welcome the change. Though you should know that Gudmund has been given freedom to leave the Estate whenever he pleases. He will of course be followed, guarded, for his own safety. I have instructed them to be lax should it actually come to that. I can hardly be blamed by his daughter if he falls victim to the Crooked Teeth.”

“A sound decision,” said Atsurr happily. “I will inform the other guards and return to my duties in the morning.”

Jarl Thrand nodded his assent, somewhat wondering whether he should have had another guard stay with him. But he did not like to behave overly fearful in his own home. He returned to his papers, while Atsurr rattled off into the distant corridor.

“I thought he’d never leave.”

Jarl Thrand glanced up to see a hooded man standing opposite. He slowly reached for his serpentine cane. “I don’t recall inviting you for an audience.”

“Nor do I.” He shrugged. “Perhaps you didn’t invite me at all.” He smirked. “Should it not go without saying, I will savage you if you try to shout out.”

“Step any closer and I will take the risk.”

The hooded man took a step back. “Then this must greatly alleviate your fear.”

The old Jarl scowled. “What do you want?”

“Want? Nothing. I’ve come to give. I’ve come to donate. Freely. Information.”

The Jarl of Timilir waited.

The hooded man chuckled. “Jarl Gudmund has offered the Crooked Teeth gold to murder you. The Black Hands and the Gem Cutters are involved. Namely, Alrik of the Black Hands and Ruby of the Gem Cutters, who has recently taken up your acquaintance and regularly attends your Estate. They, of course, wait for the weddings to be arranged.”

Jarl Thrand’s dark eyes narrowed. “And who are you in this plot?”

“I am one of the two men that lead the Crooked Teeth,” the man answered. “And I am here to entertain a counter offer.”