Chương 426: A Gathering Storm

Ch. 426 - A Gathering Storm For the rest of the day, Simon stayed in that hidden study with the corpse. That wasn't because he was still injured, though he was. The Grandmaster's healing spell had healed him enough to live, but all of his ribs ached, and he had a terrible bruise on his sternum to remind him of his near-death experience. Nor was it because he wanted one last look at the Grandmaster's books, which was secondary. He just couldn't go out looking like this.

His clothes were covered in gore, and his false hand was a scorched and ruined stump. The protective talismans hidden inside that stump were probably still fine, but the wands were ruined. He ignored that, though, and spent some time picking out a few he planned to take with him, and either read in this life or hide away for a future life. But what he needed was a plan. Escaping from the Broken Tower wouldn't be so hard, but what was he going to do after?

Just stash a few books wrapped in oilcloth in the hollow of a tree, then hang himself and come back for them another day?

"At least then I'd have two arms," he answered softly with a faint smile. He did miss having two working hands, but that wasn't enough for him to pull the plug reflexively. There was always more to do, and ending any run too early still felt like a waste to him. Because of that instinct, his first impulse had been to use magic to change his own body to match the appearance of the man and take his place. That would have meant giving up his own sight, but it probably still would have been worth it.

There were layers and layers to this onion. Still, one thing prevented that: his aura. He could change his face and his body. He could even change his height, but Simon would have to darken his aura significantly to pass for the man he'd just killed, and he had no plans to summon a dozen demons, murder a few children, or whatever it would take to do that. That meant his brothers would see right through him in an instant.

Most might not see as well as he, but they would see well enough to notice that difference, and then any suspicions that might be generated by the false notes in his act would inevitably be amplified. He'd be discovered, and what would happen then would be ugly.

"Well, this was nice while it lasted," Simon sighed as he looked around the dark room, deciding all the different ways the dominoes could fall. He could burn the contents of this room, eliminating all evidence about who the Grandmaster had really been, and leave the man's unearned good name intact. That would preserve the Whitecloaks, but did he want to preserve them?

Not in their current state; he'd come to that conclusion several times in the last few hours, but it was only when he started to paint a diabolic circle, or at least a convincing replica of one on the dusty floor in the dead man's blood, that he made the decision final. It wouldn't do anything, but it would be close enough to convince whoever found this place in the coming days that the man had been bad news.

That should be enough to shake them to their foundations, which would either force the Unspoken to dissolve or at least change. There was danger in that course of action. Change was always dangerous. He knew that, but it was the only way he'd be able to help the whisperers, he decided. That was when he finally decided what he would do. He'd linger long enough to help them escape in the chaos so that they could live lives measured in decades instead of years. His mind flashed to Casandra in the depths somewhere.

He doubted he could free her, but he was equally sure that if he freed everyone else, she wouldn't mind being left behind. For nearly the entire time Simon had known of the Unspoken, this detail had grated on him the most. These women were forced into service. The Whitecloaks thought it was for the greater good, but it was based entirely on a terrible misconception that had only bothered him more as time went on. They were chosen because they had bright auras and were seen as possible witches in the making.

As the Unspoken saw it, enlisting them in the cause was justice of a sort, but that was only because their belief was wrong. A powerful, glowing soul didn't give you the ability to use magic. Anyone, or perhaps nearly anyone, could do that if they were willing to pay the price. There wasn't a way he could explain that to his peers, of course. They believed that a powerful, bright soul could become a very dark one. It was the magnitude as much as the color that concerned them.

So, they burned through the lives of dozens of women a year just so that they could suppress magic that might or might not be used. It was not something he could overlook any longer. So, in the coming days, he would take steps to shake the foundations of the order, and then one day, perhaps he'd come back to take the reins and steer them in a better direction. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

When night fell, he made his way up with the satchel of books in the dark, and when he reached his room, he changed and then burned his ruined, bloodstained clothing. Then he set about dismounting his articulated hand and replacing the original fixed version, and varnishing over the worst of the damage before going to bed. It wouldn't hide his involvement completely. Simon had bruises and burn marks he could not explain, but he doubted he'd be the center of attention any time soon.

People had nearly stopped looking at him once he'd lost his arm, and he didn't expect that to change now. Indeed, the following day, he was proven right on that. No one so much as asked him about the damage his wooden hand had sustained. They mostly averted their gaze as they always did. No one made mention of the missing Grand Master, though, which was more surprising.

Simon expected rumors to spread fairly quickly, but he took advantage of the lull to investigate the dorms where the Whisperers and their aged counterparts, the Sisters of Silence, were cloistered away from the larger compound. There was a single guard at the gate to that complex, which also contained the infirmary he'd spent so much time in recently. No one thought it was strange that he visited the place; he'd lived there for weeks when he lingered on death's door.

Now it was natural camouflage, and he didn't even need to tell the guard his prepared lie about lingering pain in his missing arm. He did tell that to the Sisters of Silence, but only at first. After that, when he was alone with a wizened old healer that he trusted, he changed his story.

"I've been given a revelation," he told her.

"Of a spoiled fruit that looked perfect and beautiful despite a rotten core." She didn't seem to care as much as he'd hoped. She seemed to believe he was talking about himself metaphorically, and was happy to cite scripture of what she thought that meant as she prescribed herbs for his phantom complaint. However, that was not her reaction when he returned the evening that the rumors about the Grandmaster began to spread a few days later.

That news should have arrived like a thunderclap, but instead it spread through the Broken Tower like a gathering storm. Simon could literally watch the news pass from person to person, as the dark secret sent swirls of doubt and suspicion through even the brightest of auras. Still, it was one thing for the Masters and the senior knights to know, and quite another for the rank and file to find out.

For two days, a few more people seemed to learn the truth with every passing hour, and then, one night, someone must have spoken the truth in front of the wrong person, because by morning, everyone knew. Few would outright say it, of course. They spoke of tragedy and murder, but Simon could see the ripples of disgust so clearly that the words they didn't say were all but shouted. Warlock. Dark Magic. Demons. The second time he visited the sisters' cloister, his audience was more receptive. It had also multiplied.

This time, he told them more of his 'visions.' Had their sight not been stolen, they might have seen right through him, but as it was, all they could do was look to him for certainty. Simon spoke of a tribulation.

"Though the fruit is rotten," he told them, "its seeds may yet blossom into a new tree so long as they can escape the choking shade of the old order." It sounded profound, but then, he meant for it to. They didn't need details, and really, he didn't understand them all himself. The less he explained, the better.

"We should not take root anywhere," some of the Whisperers added.

"We should use this opportunity to escape!" The older women were long since resigned to their fate, but the younger ones still sought freedom, and that warmed his heart. Their elders tried to determine what the gods wanted from them, but those who were still burning their lives away with every mission wanted freedom more than purpose.

"You're both right," Simon assured them.

"You should be free, but you should also find a way to light the darkness of this world without burning away your own lives in the process." After that, as the witch hunt for what had befallen the order of the Unspoken brewed around them, he promised them a way out. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. Though outside the walls, the main stables were not particularly close to where the women he wanted to save were located. That was unfortunate, because that would be their only chance.

If he could get a few wagons ready to go and then disperse the rest of the horses before anyone thought to give chase, then that would give them enough of a head start. At least I hope it does, he told himself. The odds weren't good. Saving one man or woman wasn't hard, but trying to free fifty that might not even all want to escape? As the search mounted, Simon was even questioned on more than one occasion.

"Where were you on the night he died?" That was the question on everyone's lips, and Simon had a perfectly boring answer. He pointed with his stump to the psalter he was currently illuminating. He had no alibi or witness, but he made it look for all the world like he presented no threat to anyone. When one of the knights interrogating him asked about a fresh wound, he explained, "My infection has come back, and the sisters have been bleeding me to reduce my fevers."

Those stories worked for now, but Simon knew they wouldn't work forever. Even now, they were bringing suspects into the depths for Cassandra to question. As the sense of urgency became more palpable, he worked on his plan, and more importantly, on a wand of force and a couple of minor talismans. He was going to need a way to cut through wooden walls and iron chains, and that would be the best way to make that happen.

Throughout that process, he kept in contact with the women of the cloister, letting them know that their moment would come. Once that was done, all he had to do was wait for the right moment.