Assassin's Shadow (Veiled Dagger Book 2) (4 page)

Returning at last to his home, Rothar laid down for some much needed rest. Sleep always came with difficulty after going for so long without it. Whenever he felt himself beginning to drift off, he was wrenched back into wakefulness, as though his mind had been working for so long that it could not easily shut down.

In the hazy space between sleep and consciousness, his thoughts ran the gamut. Taria’s face danced across his mind’s eye, whispering promises and smiling coyly. Other faces took her place; the madman in the Banewood, the wretch on the street. His mind kept going back to the black star. What did it mean? Did it have anything to do with the strange and dangerous behaviors he was witnessing in the City?

Finally, sleep settled over him.

***

When he awoke, it was dark. He had slept through the rest of the day and half the night. Now, refreshed and alert, he stepped outside into the shrouded calm of night. Torches flickered at intervals, up and down the narrow, dirt streets of Witherington, and a pale moon shone on the thatched rooftops of the peasant homes. An owl called and a stray dog darted down the lane, but otherwise the night was still and quiet.

Rothar decided to take a slow walk to Castle Staghorn to retrieve Stormbringer. He had always had a fondness for the night. As a man who was always hiding, even in plain sight, the night afforded him a chance to relax in the shadows. There was something effortless about the darkness, and Rothar embraced it just as it embraced him. He was invisible, moving about the King’s City under cover of dusk.

He reached the castle stable in short order, slipping in silently through the back. Rothar knew that the castle stable boy lived in the loft above, and he did not wish to disturb or alarm him at this late hour. Rothar smiled a little and wondered if the boy would panic in the morning when he found that Stormbringer was gone.

Slivers of light were visible through cracks in the floor above, and soft voices carried down from the loft. The stable boy must be awake, and have company, Rothar thought. He began to quietly saddle Stormbringer, when he noticed a strange and pungent aroma, faintly noticeable amidst the scents of dung and hay. It was not a smell that Rothar had ever encountered before. It was sweet to the nose but somehow noxious at the same time.

Silently climbing the ladder to the hayloft, Rothar peered through the opening with one eye. The stable boy and two other young lads were sitting in a circle, smoking a long pipe and chatting quietly. Rothar supposed the gathering was harmless enough, as long as the boys took care not to burn the stables to the ground. He could not imagine that the stable boy would be willing to jeopardize his employment - or his head - over such a thing.

Rothar saddled Stormbringer and led him out into the night, the sound of their departure covered by a fit of coughing from the conclave above.

***

The rest of the night found Rothar poring over books in his humble house. He kept quite a varied library on the oaken shelves of his den, mostly histories and science texts, but very little fiction. He was searching book after book for anything explaining the note with the black star. After hours of reading and researching, he had found nothing.

Just after daybreak, there was a knock at the door. Very few people ever came to Rothar’s house, so he was curious as he answered. It was a servant that he recognized from Castle Staghorn. The man looked tired and severely worried, and he removed his cap when Rothar opened the door.

“I am very sorry to be bothering you at such an early hour, sir,” the servant stammered. “I have been sent by His Highness, King Heldar.”

Rothar stepped outside and closed the door behind him. He valued his privacy greatly. “Yes, I recognize you. What does Heldar need of me?”

The servant looked down. “Well, sir, I have not been sent to make a request, but rather to… offer condolences.”

Rothar furrowed his brow. “Condolences? For what?”

“Your… your horse was lost last night… I am very sorry. The King is also very sorry. He knows you cared for that horse.” The servant seemed beside himself with regret.

Rothar fought off a smile and thought about King Heldar, mortified that he had lost his most trusted man’s horse. He hoped that the stable boy had not already been disciplined.

“Do you mean that horse over there?” Rothar asked, pointing to the place where Stormbringer stood, untethered beneath a small tree. The horse was staring back at the bewildered servant, as though he was enjoying the humor of the moment as well.

The servant’s face slowly transformed from a look of surreal worry to one of ecstatic relief.

“Oh, thank the gods!” he rejoiced. “We were certain that he had been burned with all of the others!”

“Burned?” asked Rothar, now very serious.

“Yes, oh yes,” replied the servant. “A terrible thing indeed. The whole stable is in ashes and we know not why. Every horse is dead… except yours, of course. The stable boy is gone too.”

Rothar opened the door to his house and walked in, calling over his shoulder to the servant.

“Tell King Heldar I will meet him there.”

King Heldar was not in especially good spirits.

“I do not understand why I need to be out here, Rothar,” he complained.

“Your personal stable burned to the ground. Do you not want to know why?” retorted Rothar.

Heldar sighed. “Do you know why?”

“I have an idea why, and I am going to find out for sure, shortly.”

A dozen armed guards stood around the ashen remains, more for protection of the King and Queen than anything else. Queen Amelia herself paced around the rubble, her hand over her mouth, dabbing occasionally at tears in her eyes.

Amelia had been especially fond of the palace horses, and often spent much of a day out in the stables, petting and brushing the animals. As a result, she had become quite close with the young stable boy. Heldar and Amelia were still without children, and Rothar imagined that the stable boy had been as much like a son to Amelia as anyone could have been.

Rothar trudged about between the ruins of the crumbled stone walls, sifting through the gray ashes, looking for bits and pieces to show him what had fallen where. After a time, he was able to locate the fallen hay loft. He moved some partially burned boards and uncovered the charred bodies of the stable boy and his two friends.

Someone cried out behind Rothar. It was Queen Amelia.

“Get her back, please!” he shouted at the guards. Two of the sentries approached and helped the distraught Queen out of the debris.

Carefully, Rothar felt around by the bodies. He retrieved the long pipe that the boys had been smoking and he held it up to the King, who scowled in confusion and dismay. Gingerly, Rothar rolled over the body of the stable boy. His face and chest were less charred than his back. Feeling through the boy’s pockets, Rothar eventually found what he was afraid of finding. He walked over to King Heldar and handed him the small, round card. The King looked at the picture of the black star with the menacing eye.

“What does it all mean?” he asked Rothar.

“I am not yet sure, but I feel certain that what was in that pipe was more potent than mere tobacco. And that card has something to do with it.”

The King shook his head and grunted.

“It is no good, Rothar, people acting so dangerously,” he said. “We can not have it. I must apologize, for I know you just returned from a great ordeal, but I need you to look into this for me, old friend.”

Rothar took the black star back from the King and placed it in his pocket with the other two. He tucked the long pipe into his satchel.

“I will report to you when I have learned anything new,” he told the King. Nearby, Queen Amelia stood beneath a tree, stroking Stormbringer and weeping softly.

“Have a good funeral for the boy,” Rothar said to Heldar. “Amelia needs it.”

King Heldar looked over at his wife, and then back at Rothar.

“Of course, it shall be done.”

***

Rothar went straight from Castle Staghorn to the home of Ariswold, the apothecary. As he approached the home, he saw Harwin coming out of the door.

“Friend,” Rothar greeted the blacksmith. “You must be fetching something for Esme?”

“Yes, indeed,” answered Harwin, looking weary. “Last night was another bad one. Hopefully, with the help of Ariswold’s herbs, she can finally get some earnest rest tonight.”

Rothar nodded. “Ariswold is a wise man. You are in good hands.”

Harwin looked at Rothar uncertainly. “I always have trusted your judgment, Rothar, but I must tell you, I think that the old man may be losing some of his senses.”

With that, Harwin said goodbye.

Inside the home of Ariswold, it was dark as usual, but the air seemed especially stale and dank. Cobwebs were collecting on the normally immaculate shelves that held a variety of herbs and concoctions for which Ariswold had become known the whole kingdom over.

Rothar called out for the old man, and a clattering from the back announced his approach. Ariswold’s white hair stuck out from his scalp in every direction, and his long eyebrows cast shadows over wild eyes that seemed glassier than before. Maybe age was taking it’s toll on the man, Rothar thought.

“Rothar, is that you?” Ariswold asked, squinting through the shadows from only an arm’s length away.

“It is, Ariswold. Can I have a moment with you?”

The apothecary hesitated, eyes darting around the room, before he answered. “Of course, of course… how can I be of assistance?”

The two men sat down in a pair of wooden chairs in the corner of the study.

“Can we have some light?” Rothar asked.

Ariswold seemed reluctant, but drew back the curtains on one of the large windows. The sunlight seemed to cause the old man physical pain, and he hurried back to his chair, turning his back on the light and pulling up his cloak to shield his face.

Rothar looked at him questioningly before withdrawing the round cards from his pocket and laying them out on the small table between them.

“Do you know this symbol?” he asked the old man.

Ariswold cast a glance down at the scraps of paper and gave a hasty answer.

“No, I do not recognize that mark.”

Ariswold scratched at his arms and shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Is there something you need, Rothar? For pain perhaps?”

“No, I have no need of medicine, Ariswold, only information.”

Withdrawing the long pipe from his bag, Rothar held it out to the apothecary.

“Smell this,” he said.

Hesitantly, Ariswold sniffed at the end of the pipe. His eyes fluttered momentarily and he suddenly stood.

“Can you excuse me for just a moment?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Ariswold disappeared into the back rooms and Rothar rose and began to look around. As many books as Rothar had in his home, Ariswold owned ten times as much. Shelves reaching from floor to ceiling lined two large walls of the study. Rothar picked up a cloth rag from a table and began to wipe dust from the spines of some of the books. Ariswold had been leaving his windows open at night, and the strong south winds carried red dust inside, coating everything that it touched.

The red dust made Rothar think of Taria, and he wondered what she was doing now, in the Banewood with the huntsmen. He hoped he would be able to go to her soon and bring her to the King’s City. He was to prepare a place for her, somewhere where she would feel safe and comfortable. He wondered if leaving windows open and letting Southern sand ride in on the wind could make a house feel more like a home for a woman of the desert.

Suddenly, Ariswold was back in the room. The old man knocked over a stack of books as he rushed into the study, cursing as the tomes tumbled all over on the floor.

“I apologize, Rothar, but I have just recalled that I have an important appointment that I must keep,” Ariswold said. “We will have to continue this inquiry at another time.”

The apothecary herded Rothar towards the door, murmuring further apologies and knocking over more items the whole way.

When he was finally outside, Rothar watched the old man close him out. He led Stormbringer a short ways away and waited, watching the home. An hour passed, but the old man never left.

Ariswold certainly was not acting like himself, and he had barely looked at the papers that Rothar had shown him. Frustrated, Rothar resolved to pay the apothecary another visit the next day, and hopefully he would be feeling better.

Riding back through town, Rothar turned the events of the past two days over and over in his mind. It seemed as though, overnight, people were being dragged down into a depth of depravity and wretchedness that was unknown even in the darkest hovels of Witherington.

There was truly no way of knowing how bad things could become if this wickedness spread out of hand. Rothar knew that he had to uncover what exactly it was that was driving people to crime, to begging for alms, to burning themselves alive. What sort of mind numbing substance could create such darkness? And where was it coming from?

Suddenly, Rothar had a thought.

He spurred Stormbringer hard and bolted off towards Harwin’s home.