Chương 97: Original dealings

Nigel drummed his fingers against his knee, eyes returning again and again to the doors of the common room. He drew out a folded handkerchief and dabbed away the bead of sweat that had gathered at the tip of his nose before swallowing down the tightness steadily building in his throat. Instinctively, he wanted to call for his aide and ask the time. Ever since becoming a legate, there were precious few who made a habit of keeping him waiting. Even certain ministers had learned to respect his schedule.

But this was not his office in the Conclave Spire. His aide wasn't stationed in the adjoining chamber. And this was no mere minister who had left him sitting here. Nigel could admit, at least to himself, that he had become somewhat conceited since attaining his rank.

Certain expectations of convenience and deference had settled into him with embarrassing speed, and he couldn't say whether the fault lay in the sheer velocity of his rise through the Conclave or in some quieter flaw of temperament that had always been there. Whatever the case, if there had ever been a day to master that part of himself, today was it. He was confident he could do so. Over the past few years, he had dealt face to face with ministers, envoys, and countless Kindled.

He had accumulated no small amount of experience in navigating delicate conversations. While his temper did, on occasion, rear its head, he had thus far kept it from costing him his position. There was no reason this encounter should prove any different. A sharp crack sounded behind him, and Nigel nearly jolted out of his seat as his heart kicked against his ribs and his head snapped around.

He froze when his gaze landed on a slate-feathered bird perched on one of the blackened branches of a tree that had grown along the side of a pillar of ashen stone, its ghost-white leaves shifting faintly from the disturbance of the bird's landing.

"Soot-caught bird," he muttered under his breath, using the handkerchief to dab away the fresh sweat collecting at the base of his neck. Where had the damned thing even come from? There were no open windows from what he could see, and he was certain it hadn't been in the room a moment earlier. For that matter, who in their right mind planted a siphonbriar indoors? He had heard they leeched the vitality from anything that even brushed them. Hardly the choice of some harmless arborist.

He did not particularly care to know how that bird was still alive. The creature gave a sharp trill, its head tipping first one way and then the other as one dark eye fixed briefly on Nigel. Then it spread its wings and shot away in a blur of gray and white. Nigel shook his head. What could he expect from the stronghold of the infamous Last Hearth? On the way here, he had passed several common rooms not unlike this one, and every one of them had been arranged with similarly strange decorations.

He supposed he should simply count himself fortunate that they had received him as courteously as they had, given how often the Ember Conclave never shied away from treating their group with open suspicion.

"Huh. That was a gravewing, wasn't it?" A voice sounded out behind him.

"Kai always liked those. I guess he finally managed to catch one." Nigel's heart nearly escaped his chest a second time. He turned sharply to find a silver-gray-haired woman standing there, sigil-scars winding along her arms, her gaze resting on the place where the bird had perched as a small smile touched her lips.

"He was a bit of a bird freak," she said with a low chuckle.

"Like, the sort of person who was definitely a little too enthusiastic about them. I don't know if it counts as irony, but it made it a lot funnier that he was allergic to bird shit. Something about the proteins or whatever. We mostly just had fun making fun of him for it." Nigel stared. He had not heard the doors open, but then, did that mean anything to this woman? Veralyth Mournvale, the Ashborn Ascendant, looked down at him, lingering oddly long, then her smile shifted into something just slightly sheepish.

"Sorry for being late when I'm the one who invited you. I promised Elaria I'd help with some Silence business and had to go all the way out to the Dunweald Lowlands and back first. Bit hard to estimate travel time on a day like that." For a moment, Nigel was genuinely uncertain whether he had heard her correctly.

"Dunweald Lowlands? But that is more than a week away." She snorted.

"You don't need to tell me. I got to hitch a ride on a full-speed dragon for half a day there and back, but that only gets you so far. Had to cover the rest with Hollow Reach, and let me tell you, that starts to lose its charm after the twelfth jump. I've chugged more Echophials in the last several hours than in the entire month before this. At this point, I feel like a wrung-out rag with more elixir in me than blood."

She stretched lazily as she dropped into the seat opposite Nigel, propping her boots on the low table between them and folding her arms across her chest.

"You don't mind if we skip the formalities, do you?" she asked. The corner of Nigel's mouth twitched very slightly.

"No," he said.

"Great. I'm way too tired to deal with all that right now, and I need to recharge enough that I can spend some actual time with my daughter later. Besides, I was thinking it'd be pretty ridiculous if I went and threatened half your colleagues before and then came in here acting all meek." Nigel forced his expression to remain neutral. For all the woman's loose sprawl and casual tone, the eyes fixed on him were not the eyes of someone treating this conversation lightly. There was a quiet danger behind them.

It brought him back to that scene. To the suffocating silence that had brooked no interruption. To the sight of this woman standing in the Tiered Conclave and forcing all of its occupants to bend under her power, while the Flamebearer herself stood at her side and allowed it. He had not been among the direct targets of her anger, yet the memory of it had still kept him awake that night. The event had sent a bitter mood coursing through the entire Ember Conclave.

Many among its members had been incensed by the insult implied in her conduct and her threats alike, but none truly dared to voice that outrage too loudly in public, in case the woman had meant every word she said.

"So," Veralyth said, pulling him back to the present, "what was this thing you wanted to meet me about?"

"What was it about?" Nigel asked in response.

"Yeah." He couldn't help the frown.

"That's what you have to say after pressing me to work half to death these past years?" He couldn't quite stop the caution in him from giving way to a measure of frustration, though he cursed himself for it after. This was a woman who feared neither the Ember Conclave nor the Cinder Council. He was in no position to snap at her.

Veralyth regarded him for a few moments without answering, brows lifting slightly, but to his surprise, there was none of the cold fury in her expression that he had seen turned upon the Conclave. Instead, he thought he saw something closer to… curiosity?

"Jog my memory, would you," she said.

"Did we have some kind of arrangement?" Nigel stiffened.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm asking what exactly I had you do for me."

"…Is this a test?"

"Sure. You can think of it like that." He stared at her, searching her expression carefully. He could find no signs of mockery there. In fact, he couldn't even say with confidence that there was any recognition. Thinking back, he realized that her first look at him had not been the look of someone greeting a familiar face. … Had this woman forgotten him? The absolute knave. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

Was that how she regarded those she considered beneath her notice? After forcing all that work on him under conditions that had made success nearly impossible with the resources available to him? He could say with perfect confidence that there was not another member of the Conclave who could have accomplished what he had under the same circumstances, yet to this woman the entire matter apparently hadn't even risen to the level of a memorable inconvenience.

"Hmph." He barely managed to keep his continually rising frustration contained as he adjusted his collar, sat straighter and arranged his features into their most professional cast. No. He would not let her see him any more rattled. He was above that. His sole aim in coming here had been to ensure that he walked away with what he had been promised. A quiet voice at the back of his mind whispered that perhaps he had been tricked. That perhaps the person who had used him hadn't been this woman at all.

That perhaps it had all been a deception to ruin his career. But he shoved that voice aside. She had done more than enough to establish her identity when they first met, and the benefits she had hinted would come were undoubtedly real. He had also long suspected that his own rapid elevation to the rank of legate had owed at least a little to pressure applied quietly from someone powerful outside the Conclave, and there was none other than her who would have reason to do that.

Though naturally, the far greater share of the credit belonged to his own abilities.

"Since the matter was evidently not significant enough to leave an impression," he said, "I will recount it. But first, I would like your word that what is said here will not be overheard or repeated beyond this room." Something like a frown passed across Veralyth's face, but she nodded.

"There's nobody around except us. I can promise that."

"Good." While Nigel was not a man who was overly burdened by scruples, he did consider himself a man of his word, and he had delivered precisely what he had promised. Even so, he had no desire to see one careless remark in the wrong ear unravel all that he had built. He cleared his throat.

"You contacted me during the Ashwane two years ago because you were, by your own admission, in need of a talented and discreet individual inside the Conclave who could ensure that a particular stretch of reports coming out of a minor region called the Rellmark Tracts, near Brackenwash, failed to attract meaningful Covenant attention." Veralyth's eyes narrowed.

"…You're saying I asked you to do that?"

"You did, yes." Nigel studied her, and the confusion he found on her face only sharpened the suspicion beginning to trouble him.

"I trust you do not intend to continue pretending ignorance of the matter," he said evenly.

"Or of the payment you promised me in return." He had taken a considerable risk in accepting that arrangement. More than that, he had taken an even greater one in agreeing that payment would be withheld until the task had been completed to her satisfaction. The only reason he had accepted such terms was because of who she was. He had placed a calculated degree of trust in the name of Veralyth Mournvale and in the weight that name carried.

At the time, he had considered the risk reasonably balanced against the significance of what she had offered. But if she now intended to withdraw from that bargain, he was all but ruined.

"I will have you know that I still possess the original reports from the Rellmark Tracts, along with the revised summaries that were circulated up—""I don't remember any promise I made to you," Veralyth cut in. Nigel stopped. A cold thread of horror rushed through him. Could it be that the woman truly had no idea what he was talking about? Had she genuinely forgotten all of it? What, exactly, had happened to her during the years she had been gone? And what would happen to him?

"That said, I'll keep whatever promise I did make," Veralyth continued, holding his gaze.

"You don't need to worry about that. If it's in my power, I'll do it. But I want those reports, every related document you still have, and everything you can tell me about the job I gave you. And I want to know why I had you do it, and exactly how you pulled it off." Nigel nearly faltered, his mouth opening and closing once as he found himself briefly at a loss. The horror was replaced by a thread of hope, but he soon managed to collect himself again.

Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he cleared his throat once more.

"I cannot answer with certainty why, because you never saw fit to explain your purpose," he said.

"I can only say that you seemed to expect unusual Resonance activity to begin emerging from the Rellmark Tracts around that time, and that you clearly did not want the Covenant taking notice of it. My personal assumption was that this was where you disappeared to, but perhaps that was mistaken." He paused, eyeing her briefly, before going on.

"As for the details of what I did, it was not especially difficult in principle. Only delicate. The Rellmark Tracts contain no settled population, so the only people who pass through them with any regularity are Kindled attached to Brackenwash's Chapter, and they rarely submit anything beyond the notice of their own Chapter-Master.

The sigilists serving under Sancter Ilvar in Brackenwash are the only ones inclined to pay sustained attention to irregularities in the region, and their communications with the Covenant pass either through the Ardent Circle or, further removed, to the Ember Conclave by way of administrative summaries and forwarded assessments. In the case of the latter, such materials are always sorted, condensed, cross-referenced, marked for follow-up, or left pending clarification.

I made certain that anything unusual emerging from the Tracts was consistently judged too minor, too uncertain, or too poorly corroborated to warrant direct notice, while I also coordinated with certain acquaintances positioned to make sure that similar judgments prevailed on the Circle's side. Naturally, as neat as he made it sound, the reality had been anything but.

To keep material of that kind, with any consistency, from ever reaching the eyes of someone inclined to act upon it, he had been forced to take a number of carefully measured risks and grease the right palms with the proper people in both Caer Virell and Brackenwash, all the while walking a fine line that allowed nothing to be destroyed or forged.

The goal was to make sure that by the time enough fragments existed for a pattern to begin suggesting itself, that pattern had already been diluted into routine administrative noise. Had the nature of his work not demanded discretion, he might almost have wished to boast of it. By any sensible measure, it had been an impressive feat, and he had achieved it all while technically remaining within the procedural boundaries of the Ember Conclave. It was, as some might say, 'done by the books.'

For some reason, however, Veralyth's expression darkened.

"You bribed people in the Ardent Circle?"

"Hm? No, no. There was no direct bribery involved. I simply—""Those are Elaria's people."

"…I did what was necessary to carry out the task you gave me," Nigel said, suddenly very aware of how dry his mouth had become. Veralyth's brow drew together as though she disliked the answer, but then it eased slightly.

"In addition to the other documents, you'll give me a list of their names," she said. Nigel froze.

"If you intend to move against them, then I would be—""I'm not going to do anything that puts you at risk," she interrupted.

"But I'm also not letting Elaria trust the wrong people if this ever turns into a situation where their involvement could cost her life." Nigel found no immediate protest to offer. He suspected that even if he tried to pressure her with the documents in his possession, it would hardly trouble her. The Covenant was in no position to squander resources on a fight of that sort. And at present, it was becoming increasingly unclear whether the Flamebearer would stand with or against her in the case of a conflict.

What, exactly, was the relationship between the Ashborn Ascendant and the Flamebearer? It was the question currently circulating through both the Cinder Council and the Ember Conclave, and he would have been surprised if it wasn't already beginning to spread through the streets of Caer Virell as well. Personally, he had no intention of prying into it.

"So," Veralyth said.

"Will you give me those documents?" He hesitated, then nodded.

"I will."

"Good." She shifted slightly, placing one leg over the other.

"Then the promise. What was it about? Money?" Nigel watched her face and the steady look in her eyes.

"…No, it was not money. You promised that you could obtain a Godgrave tear for me." For the first time, he saw surprise cross Veralyth's expression. It was followed by something sharper, and then understanding.

"A Godgrave tear," she repeated.

"Then do you have someone—?"

"My wife," Nigel said.

"My wife has not opened her eyes for seven years." When the Ashkeeper had broken free of his prison and the first horrors spilled out from the Godgrave to ravage the dominions of man, countless thousands had fallen under the influence of the Smokebound Covenant. Later, when the Ashkeeper was cast down and the Vault of Thirteen Oaths sealed once more, relief had swept through the dominions as the Covenants broke and most of those afflicted were released. Most.

But for a vanishingly small number, the Covenant had never fully loosened its grasp. His wife had been among them. For those few, there was only one known remedy: a Godgrave tear. But these were not the sort of thing a man simply acquired. They belonged to a similar realm of myth and rumor as the very woman sitting before him. Their prices were fit to purchase castles outright. Not once in the years since his wife fell ill had he heard a credible mention of one.

Yet it was precisely such a thing that Veralyth Mournvale, the Ashborn Ascendant, had promised she could place in his hands. And now, more than anything, he found himself praying to all of the Houses that promise had not died somewhere in her years of absence. For several moments, Veralyth said nothing. She simply looked at him. Some of the looseness went out of her posture.

Her boots still rested on the table, her arms still folded, but the careless edge she had worn had receded almost entirely, leaving behind something quieter.

"Do you love her?" she asked. He almost scowled at the question.

"Of course I do." There were two things that drove Nigel Marlove above all else. One was his ambition—his determination to rise through the ranks of the Ember Conclave to a station worthy of his talents, where the reach of his hand might finally match the sharpness of his mind. And the other was his wife. He could never accept one without the other. After some time, Veralyth nodded.

"Alright," she said.

"I'll get you a Godgrave tear." Something in Nigel's chest tightened.

"You will?"

"Yeah." She rubbed at the back of her neck.

"They're hard to get nowadays, but I used to burn through those things like crazy back then. I think I still have one left in Sablewatch Hollow. If I don't, I'll head to the Godgrave myself and find one." For the first few seconds, Nigel could only stare at her, uncertain how to process her words. The relief did not come as a rush, but something almost painful in its slow unfolding, like a fist unclenching around his ribs after years of being held shut. He was not yet prepared to believe it.

"Thank you." Nonetheless, those words left him. Veralyth simply gave a faint nod. For the first time in years, Nigel allowed himself to believe that when he returned home, it might not always be to the same still silence waiting behind those doors.