Chương 120: Charlatan

It was funny. Even though Roderic had technically died once already—an event he preferred not to revisit in any undue detail—he couldn't recall his heart ever beating quite as fast as it did now. It hammered so loudly in his ears that he half expected to find some lunatic had sewn a drum to the side of his skull. Behind him, somewhere in the darkened Sanctum, footsteps might very well be touching stone, following him. Thinking about it only made his heart beat louder. Not especially dignified of him.

But then, he would like to meet the ne'er-do-well who could remain dignified with one of the Marked Ones hunting them. The man would be a marvel. A liar, most likely, but a marvel. Of course, as the founder and commander of a highly competent, secretive, and illustrious—at least to the select few who mattered enough to know of it—organization, Roderic still resisted the urge to soil his smallclothes. He rounded a corner, one hand brushing the shelves that lined most of the Sanctum's corridors.

Bundled folios, sealed writs, brass-bound ledgers, and narrow scroll-cases crowded every available space, all of them tagged and sorted according to some logic that undoubtedly meant a great deal to the right sort of person. Roderic was not that sort of person. He respected records, certainly. Records were useful. Records could condemn a man, exonerate a man, bankrupt a man, or make a man look far more respectable than he had any right to be. In his past, he'd mostly used them for that last one.

Nowadays, he left most understanding of records to Number Five. He slowed at the next intersection, listening. There was nothing to hear behind him, which could be a good sign. Or no sign whatsoever. Roderic drew a careful breath. That was fine. He had made a career out of situations that were fine in only the most technical sense. Bluffing and dissembling under pressure had been part of his daily life for so long that it had become less a skill and more a condition.

If they were to cut him open and place his soul, along with all its various vestigials, under the scrutinizing eye of a sigilist, Roderic suspected they would be delighted to find less of the House aspects than expected. Instead, they would discover a previously undocumented aspect, which they would then have the honor of naming. As for what they would dub it… Charlatanry, perhaps? If only his body and mind had received the same blessing, his life would have been considerably easier.

Unfortunately, his body remained stubbornly flesh, and his mind had an irritating habit of focusing on minor details like danger, pursuit, and the very real possibility of a Resonance-infused sword suddenly appearing any moment now to separate his head from his neck. But that was simply how it was. A man made do with the talents he had. Roderic had learned that early in life.

His father had told him as much shortly before keeling over in one of Gloamhaven's gutter-slick alleys with a bottle of penny-black rotgut in one hand and the local tallyman's patience thoroughly exhausted in the other. There had been some disagreement over arrears, interest, and whether a man could reasonably be expected to repay money he had only borrowed while drunk.

"Na'un, son," his father had said.

"Ain't a sodden bastard in this world who knows what they're doing. They're acting, all and each body of 'em. Just gotta act better." Roderic's father hadn't been the most literate sort. But he had carried morsels of wisdom larger than his vocabulary, and that one had stayed with a younger Roderic. Nobody knew what they were doing. Not the kings of old. Not castellans. Not votives, captains, merchants, thieves, or any of the famed heroes folk sang of in taverns. That realization had done wonders for him.

A frightened boy could pretend to be confident. A confident thief could pretend to be a gentleman. A gentleman could pretend to be a servant of the public good. And a servant of the public good might even become a castellan, if only temporarily. Still, if each pretense lasted long enough, gathered enough witnesses, and survived enough inconvenient scrutiny, then eventually the distinction between it and reality became purely academic.

It was a bit of a shame that he eventually learned that his father had been wrong. There were, in fact, plenty of folk who were exactly as competent, principled, and dignified as they appeared. Some of them were even worse than that. By the time Roderic discovered this appalling fact, he was already committed. Though look where that had gotten him. Part of him wanted to curse Veralyth for buying him the opportunity she had.

He vastly preferred when he didn't have to risk his own hide to this degree, even if it was for the greater good. But he was Roderic Presley. The man responsible for Ashbreaker Ruun's defeat. Personal friend of the Ashborn Ascendant. Uncle to the Flamebearer's—supposed—daughter. Number One of the Veiled Charter, and a redeemed hero in his own right. Did that sound like the sort of man who soiled his smallclothes over some minor concern like impending decapitation? He sincerely hoped not. So it was time to prove it.

Relying on the information provided by his Numbers, which he had spent an undue amount of time actually memorizing, Roderic made his way through the underground halls of the Sanctum. Number Four had identified one chamber as the most likely place to conceal any larger rites, and, so far, the route to it had been clear. He didn't run into any sigilists or guards. Even if he had, he felt confident in his ability to hide from most who hadn't surpassed the limits of the Tenth Binding.

Finally, he arrived at a descending staircase. The corridor at its bottom ended in a door of blackened heartwood reinforced with dull strips of ward-iron. Roderic placed his palm against its cold surface and called his Resonance to invoke a Second Seal Mark that had once been his most tried-and-tested piece of trickery, and which had found its way back into his repertoire after he founded the Charter. Mark of the Veiled Entry. It was a delicate invocation, but those were the best kind.

They lent themselves to overbinding, and he suspected this door wouldn't open to something as simple as an ordinary Second Seal. His Resonance rose in a rapid deluge. Mystifying sigils formed in the door's surface. Then something clicked. The door shuffled open under a shroud of shifting images. Roderic stepped through and let it close on its own behind him. He didn't need to look back to know it would seem as though the door had never opened at all. This story originates from Royal Road.

Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. He was also busy staring at the sight before him. Sigils covered the chamber floor, and sheets of parchment hung from suspended wire frames around the open space, but his gaze passed over all of it. What held him was the lattice at the heart of the chamber, rotating slowly near the ceiling. It was made of pale light, its bars passing through one another without touching as they formed and unformed the outline of a circle.

Seemed they had been wrong about the Pale Reconciliation or a Silent Lord being involved. That thing radiated pure House Hollow Resonance. Of that there was no doubt. But it wasn't normal. Roderic had never felt anything like it before. He didn't even dare assume what it was. His attention shifted to the center of the chamber floor, where boards and crates had been arranged among various tools. An old man moved between the boards, scratching his bald head absently.

His frame was thin to the point of gauntness, barely covered by a loose undershirt and worn trousers, both heavily smudged with ink and chalk. If one excluded the resemblance to a vagrant, he matched the collected likenesses. This was Sancter Auber Voss. Head of the Sanctum of Darnelle, and a respected, nearly legendary sigilist who subscribed to the doctrines of the Latticed Eye. Roderic had read the dossier on the man's character.

The Charter had categorized him as a Type Two potential instigator, which described those in influential positions believed to possess both the mindset and means to work against the Covenant's greater aims, but for whom there was not yet credible evidence or reason to believe they had done so. By pure coincidence, Veralyth had been assigned the same designation by Roderic himself. In comparison, Yria was only Type Three. Clearly, that had been a misjudgment of her.

In any case, that categorization was why it drew attention when the Sanctum of Darnelle started purchasing and collecting rare materials and instruments over the last year and a half. The pattern had built slowly, however, which was why the Charter had only acted recently. Roderic regretted that, because it looked as if whatever they were doing here was nearly complete. He crossed the chamber under the cover of his Resonance, stepping carefully so as not to disturb anything.

Sancter Voss's back was turned to him as he neared, but suddenly, the man spoke.

"What'd you run off for?" he asked in a gruff tone.

"Did anything happen?" Roderic stopped. He stayed completely silent. Sancter Voss turned, then frowned. His eyes moved over the room without landing on Roderic's form before he finally grunted.

"Soot-caught veilborns, making an old man imagine things now. Trying to stop my heart again already? Is it so hard to walk around normally?" He turned back to the board and continued drawing across it. Roderic watched him closely for a while, making sure the man's attention didn't stray. When he felt reasonably confident, he shifted his focus to the other boards, the markings drawn across them, and the sigils carved throughout the chamber.

Careful to keep their presences concealed by his Resonance, he brought out a trio of sigil-crafted tools to record the shape of the Resonance here, the sigils, and the appearance of the chamber itself. Regardless of the outcome today, those records could be used to analyze the situation later. As he worked, he noticed Sancter Voss scratch his head and release another annoyed grunt before walking over to a crate filled with various trinkets.

He sifted through it, muttering to himself, and Roderic was about to return to his recording when a bad premonition struck him. As a rule, he never doubted premonitions. He moved out of the way just in time as Sancter Voss dug out a wand shaped like a closed eye. An explosion of Veilborn Resonance erupted where Roderic had been standing. The edges of the burst touched the Resonance of the Mark concealing him, and suddenly the whole Mark dissolved.

"Hah! This old man still has his marbles rolling! Think you could fool me?" Roderic raised his hands, a pair of curved daggers appearing in them as he faced the man.

"Who are you?" Sancter Voss asked.

"Reveal your allegiances and how you got here, and I may let you live." Resonance pooled at the head of the wand. Roderic's left hand trembled, and sweat pooled on his brow. That item was truly dangerous. Should he surrender? He always had his Numbers prepare for the eventuality of capture, and that meant preparing a suitable cover story.

Number Eleven had been responsible for designing the ones used in Darnelle, and they were supposed to optimize for the possibility of a target choosing not to kill a Number outright. Unfortunately, Roderic couldn't quite remember all the details of the cover story for this mission. He'd already memorized the Sanctum's layout. More than that really wasn't easy for normal people. He had recruited his Numbers specifically because they weren't normal.

As he contemplated devising a cover story of his own, he caught a flicker in the corner of Sancter Voss's eye as the man glanced at Roderic's daggers. Roderic paused. He recognized that look. He'd practiced in front of many a mirror to keep it out of his own eyes. This man was not as confident as he liked to pretend. Meanwhile, Roderic had two considerable advantages. One was the robes concealing his appearance and Resonance, as well as his strength.

The other was the person Sancter Voss thought should have returned here in his place. Roderic spun the daggers around his thumbs and let them disappear into his Vaultring. Then he straightened into a composed posture and folded his arms in front of him.

"You could try using that again, but you would have to lose a hand," he said. His voice came out darker and far more mysterious than it should. Naturally, Roderic had designed these hoods precisely with that effect in mind. Sancter Voss's frown deepened.

"You think I'm taking threats from you?"

"You should. Wakeshade isn't coming to help you." The man's expression stiffened. Roderic was lying, of course. Under normal circumstances, he might have expected Veralyth to keep Wakeshade occupied for plenty of time, but apparently she was injured. Since he still wasn't dead, he assumed his compatriot had managed to buy him a decent amount of time. Even so, he would be shocked if he had more than a few minutes left.

Sancter Voss stayed silent for several moments, his eyes darting from Roderic to the Resonance working hovering above. Finally, they settled solely on Roderic.

"…Who are you?"

"I will be asking the questions. At least if you don't want me interrupting what you've been doing here." The old man scowled, but said nothing. Roderic took that as affirmation. It seemed he was right in assuming the sigilist cared most about his work here.

"To start, what is this?" He motioned upward with his head. Sancter Voss gave him a questioning look.

"You don't know?"

"I asked the question." The man's gaze moved to the entrance.

"Wakeshade won't come just because you drag this out," Roderic said.

"We came prepared to deal with Cycle-Forged. Now answer the question, and don't make me start with breaking fingers." Sancter Voss turned back to him.

"It's a burgeoning apotheon." Roderic's brow furrowed.

"An apotheon?"

"Yes, an apotheon." A feverish light came into the man's eyes.

"Divinity. Made and caught in an artificial vessel." A chill passed through Roderic.

"You've made divinity?"

"Precisely!" Sancter Voss looked as if he couldn't keep the excitement from bleeding into his voice at the admission.

"Why?" Roderic asked.

"Why?" The man blinked.

"Knowledge, of course! For the Latticed Eye! Never before have the boundaries limiting what can be achieved been so weak. We would be fools not to test them."

"This research can't possibly have been sanctioned." Who would risk anything that could earn the ire of the Houses? Especially when the Houses were what was keeping man alive.

"Sanctioned? Sanctioned?!" Sancter Voss laughed.

"Sanctioned by whom? The Covenant? The Castellan?" He scoffed.

"The Covenant is an alliance, nothing more. It has no say in what our Sanctum does in Darnelle. And the Castellan is still a sniveling whelp who hasn't learned not to bend the knee of his city before Caer Virell. He has earned no right to interfere in what we do." He cleared his throat, and Roderic almost expected him to spit on the floor, but he didn't. Roderic studied him for a few moments. This was why the Charter had kept an eye on Sancter Voss. Perhaps age was part of it.

Many of those now elderly had been young in the aftermath of the Ashward Restoration, when the dominions had fought in an attempt to recreate the glory the Ember Throne once held. Especially outside Caer Virell, the man's sentiment wasn't unusual. They believed the Covenant of Flame too closely resembled the powers of old, and that it centralized too much power in Caer Virell. Some even genuinely believed it was another restoration attempt. Their fears weren't entirely unfounded.

The onslaught of the First Warden, twelve years back, had nearly proved as much when the remnants of the Ashward clans sparked their compact. But it was the Flamebearer herself who put a stop to it. And regardless of the politics, the Covenant was necessary if the dominions of man were to persevere. As for whether this 'apotheon' was truly divine or not, the danger lay in whose hands held it.

Someone like Sancter Voss could clearly harm the Covenant, and Roderic did not like the odds of persuading the man to use it for them. As regrettable as it was… Roderic's gaze moved to the wand in the old Sancter's hand. At the very least, he could probably bring the man down with him. And if luck held, he might remain intact enough to bring this place down as well, before Wakeshade arrived. The last time he'd sacrificed himself, Veralyth had been involved too.

He used to think she was his lucky charm, but he wondered now if he'd had that the wrong way around. A tad too late to be thinking about that, though. He unfolded his arms. Sancter Voss stepped back. His hand shook slightly. The daggers reappeared in Roderic's grasp. The old man's eyes widened.

"You—!"" Don't." The voice passed through the chamber, and everything seemed to go still. It was powerful and commanding, yet soft and light at the same time. Almost warm. A hand touched Roderic's wrist, lowering his arm. He looked down at it. Pale, with sigil-scars drawn along the skin. His gaze lifted to the woman standing beside him.

"Zero," he said.

"I thought you—" He paused. Where were the robes he had given her? And why couldn't he sense any Resonance from her anymore? The small smile on her face also felt odd. From behind came a faint sound, like the rattle of chains. Roderic looked over his shoulder and found Yria Wakeshade standing there, one hand on the hilt of the sword at her side as it trembled violently. She stared at Veralyth. Her hands moved in patterns that took Roderic a moment to parse. How are you here?