Blood of the Fold (Sword of Truth 3)

He cleared his throat in annoyance. “I’ve heard any number of rumors already, and don’t need any more. I need to know the truth of what has been going on in Aydindril. Why, I’ve even heard that the council has been executed, as well as the Mother Confessor.”

Her narrow-eyed smile returned. “Then why wouldn’t a man of your high status simply stop by the palace as he rode in, and ask to see the council? That would make more sense than dragging in all sort of people who would have no direct knowledge, and asking them. The truth would be better discerned with your own eyes, m’lord.”

Brogan pressed his lips together. “I wasn’t here when the rumors say the Mother Confessor was executed.”

“Ahh, so it’s the Mother Confessor you’re interested in, then. Why didn’t you simply say so, instead of going all round about? I heard that she was beheaded, but I didn’t see it. My granddaughter saw it though, didn’t you my dear?”

The little girl nodded. “Yes, m’lord, saw it myself, I did. Chopped her head right off, they did.”

Brogan made a show of sighing. “That was what I feared. She is dead, then.”

The girl shook her head. “Didn’t say that, m’lord. I said I saw them chop off her head.” She looked right into his eyes and smiled.

“What do you mean by that?” Brogan shot a glare up at the old woman. “What does she mean by that?”

“What she says, m’lord. Aydindril has always been a city with a strong undercurrent of magic, but it has been fairly crackling with it, of late. Where magic is involved, you can’t always trust your eyes alone. Though she is young, this one is smart enough to know that much. A man of your profession would know it, too.”

“Crackling with magic? That portends evil. What do you know about the Keeper’s minions?”

“Terrible, they are, m’lord. But magic is, in itself, not evil; it exists without guile of its own.”

Brogan’s fists tightened. “Magic is the Keeper’s taint.”

She cackled again. “That would be like saying that the shiny silver knife at your belt is the Keeper’s taint. If used to menace or harm an innocent, then the holder of the knife is evil. But if, for instance, it is used to defend life against a fanatical lunatic, no matter his high standing, then the holder of the knife is good. The knife is neither, because each can use it.”

Her eyes seemed to go out of focus, and her voice lowered to a hiss. “But if used for retribution, magic is vengeance incarnate.”

“Well then, in your view, is this magic you say is about in the city being used for good, or evil?”

“For both, m’lord. This is, after all, the home of the Wizard's Keep, and a seat of power. Confessors have ruled here for thousands of years, as well as wizards. Power draws power. Conflict is afoot. Scaled creatures, called mriswith, have begun to appear out of the very air, and gut any innocent in their way. An ominous omen, if ever there was one. Other magic lurks to snatch the rash, or unwary. Why, the very night is alive with magic carried on the gossamer wings of dreams.”

She peered at him with one faded blue eye as she went on. “A child who is fascinated with fire could easily be incinerated here. Such a child would be well advised to be very careful, and leave at the first opportunity, before he inadvertently puts his hand into a flame.

“Why, people are even pulled off the street, to have their words filtered through a sieve of magic.”

Brogan leaned forward with a smoldering expression. “And what do you know about magic, madam?”

“An equivocal question, m’lord. Could you be more explicit?”

Tobias paused for a moment, trying to pick the nettles out of her ramblings. He had dealt with her kind before, and he realized she was gulling him off the subject, off the trail.

He brought back his polite smile. “Well, for instance, your granddaughter says she saw the Mother Confessor beheaded, but that that doesn’t mean she be dead. You say magic can make it so. I’m intrigued by such a statement. While it’s true that I know magic can occasionally fool people, I’ve only heard of it working small deceptions. Could you explain how death could be revoked?”

“Revoke death? The Keeper has such power.”

Brogan pressed forward against the table. “Are you saying the Keeper himself brought her back to life?”

She cackled. “No, m’lord. You are so persistent in what you want that you do not pay attention, and hear only what you want to hear. You specifically asked how death could be revoked. The Keeper can revoke death. At least, I’m assuming he can because he is the ruler of the dead, holds power over life and death, so it’s only natural to believe that—”

“Is she alive or not!”

The old woman blinked at him. “How would I know that, m’lord?”

Brogan ground his teeth. “You said that just because people saw her beheaded, that doesn’t mean she be dead.”

“Oh, back to that, are we? Well, magic can perform such a ruse, but that does not mean it did. I said only that it could. Then you went off scent asking about death being revoked. Quite a separate issue, m’lord.”

“How, woman! How can magic accomplish such high deception!”

She snugged the tattered blanket up around her shoulders.

“A death spell, m’lord.”

Brogan glanced to Lunetta. Her beady eyes were fixed on the old woman, and she was scratching her arms.

“A death spell. And what, exactly, is a death spell?”

“Well, I’ve never seen one executed, so to speak—” She chuckled at her own joke. “—so I can’t give you proper witness, but I can tell you what I’ve been told, if you’ve a wish to hear secondhand knowledge.”

Brogan spoke through clenched teeth. “Tell me.”

“Seeing a death, comprehending it, is something we all recognize at a spiritual level. It’s this seeing of a body with its soul, or spirit, departed, that we recognize as death. A death spell can mimic a real death by making people believe they have seen a death, that they have seen the body without its soul, and so make them viscerally accept the event as true.”

She shook her head as if she found the matter both amazing and scandalizing. “Very dangerous, it is. It requires invoking the aid of the spirits to hold the person’s spirit while the web is cast. If anything goes wrong, the subject’s spirit would be cast helpless into the underworld—a very unpleasant way to die. If everything goes right, and if the spirits return that which they have preserved, I am told it will work, and the person will live, but those seeing it will think them dead. Very chancy, though. While I’ve heard of it, I’ve never heard of it actually being attempted, so it may be nothing more than hearsay.”

Brogan sat quietly moving the pieces of information around in his mind, pulling together things he had learned this day, and things he had learned in the pa

st, searching for the right fit. It must have been a trick done to escape justice, but not one she could have accomplished without accomplices.

The old woman put a hand to the girl’s shoulder and started shuffling off. “Thank you for the warmth, m’lord, but I grow tired of your haphazard questions, and I’ve better things to do.”

“Who could perform a death spell?”

The old woman halted. Her washed-out blue eyes lit up with a dangerous cast. “Only a wizard, m’lord. Only a wizard of immense power and great knowledge.”

Brogan fixed her with a dangerous look of his own. “And are there any wizards here, in Aydindril?”

Her slow smile made her faded eyes gleam. She reached into a pocket under the blanket and tossed a coin on the table, where it spun in lazy circles before finally toppling over before him. Brogan picked up the silver coin, squinting at the strike.

“I asked a question, old woman. I expect an answer.”

“You hold it, m’lord.”

“I’ve never seen a coin like this. What’s this image on it? It looks to be a grand structure of some sort.”

“Oh it is, m’lord,” she hissed. “It’s the spawn of salvation and doom, of wizards and magic: the Palace of the Prophets.”

“Never heard of it. What is this Palace of the Prophets?”

The old woman smiled a private smile. “Ask your sorceress, m’lord.” She turned again to leave.

Brogan shot to his feet. “No one gave you permission to leave, you toothless old hag!”

She peered back over her shoulder. “It’s the liver, m’lord.”

Brogan leaned forward on his knuckles. “What?”

“I’ve a taste for raw liver, m’lord. I believe that’s what makes the teeth fall out, over time.”

Just then, Galtero appeared, squeezing past the woman and girl as they went through the doorway. He saluted with fingertips to bowed forehead. “Lord General, I have a report.”

“Yes, yes, in a moment.”

“But—”

Brogan held up a silencing finger to Galtero as he turned to Lunetta. “Well?”