"Slow down—who did you say it is?" Zeke asked.
Mòrag's words were hurried, a twisted sort of excitement that he almost didn't recognize. "The Birall family. You know, Senator Birall, head of the Gardic party?"
"But he seems really supportive of the throne. Not the traitor type. Why would he be helping the Aramach?"
"I don't know. But believe me, I'm going to find out."
By the time Zeke's feet hit the floor, Mòrag was already pulling on her boots. There would be no convincing her to go back to sleep and wait until morning. Even on their journeys, when nothing was on the agenda except a long day of traveling, Mòrag had been the most immune to pleadings for "five more minutes" when she was on wake-up duty. She certainly wouldn't heed them now—not with the possibility of catching the traitor at last.
"I'll go drag the guys out of bed. You get the girls."
At least I don't have to wake the demonic sleeper Mythra, he thought bitterly.
Most of the group complained that they were dragged out of bed so dreadfully early (Brighid and Dromarch were the only ones who kept their grumblings to themselves). But when Rex heard that they were about to go arrest one of the criminals behind the violence, he visibly brightened. And his relentless positivity was catchy; any bad attitudes that couldn't be cured by coffee were greatly improved by Rex's eagerness.
Mòrag and Brighid kept themselves occupied for the entire journey back to Alba Cavanich—learning Birall's daily agenda, arranging for a team of elite soldiers to meet them on the ground, and alerting the Emperor to the circumstances at hand. By the time they landed, the plan was set; all the arrangements were made. Senator Birall was in the middle of the Senate's official proceedings. He would be there all afternoon. And they would capture him before he had a chance to flee.
The Inquisitor strode from the Imperial docks to the Senate building, eyes fixed in a singular focus. Her friends trailed behind her, as did the soldiers she requested, creating a group that was equally imposing and ridiculous. They drew stares as they traipsed through the lobby.
"Lady Mòrag," Brighid hissed, "please slow down and think about this for a minute. Are you sure you want to arrest him now? You'll create uproar. The entire Senate will know."
"Birall did not spare us any uproar when he helped level Phriosune, correct? I will not afford him the courtesy of silent justice."
"But are you absolutely sure about the crest? That crate is the only evidence we have to go on right now. If it turns out that you're wrong, if you arrest an innocent man in front of the entire Senate, we'll have a complete scandal on our hands."
"My instincts are rarely wrong, Brighid. And I'm well within my rights to detain him. Trust me on this one."
"As you wish."
"Uproar" was putting it mildly. To interrupt official procedures was always regarded as a gross breach of etiquette. Granted, the Special Inquisitor could do as she pleased, but the interruption still caused a stir (as did Tora and Poppi, who entered the room and stopped short to stare at the building's architecture). Senator Byrne, who'd been in the middle of presenting a bill, stammered, unable to overpower the confused murmur that rolled through the Senate building.
"Special Inquisitor Mòrag," Byrne said, finally gathering his wits. "I trust your Grace has adequate cause for this untimely interruption?"
"Perhaps you'd like to ask that question of Senator Birall."
Hundreds of eyes found their way to the head of the Gardic party. The man stood. If the sudden spotlight phased him, he hid it well.
"What exactly are you implying, my lady?" he asked, his tone smug.
"Would you care to explain the metal crate we found in the remains of Phriosune prison, or shall I? I'm confident our esteemed Senate would like to know why your family crest was found on the crate that blew up the facility, Birall."
The Senators gasped at both the accusation and the disrespect displayed; to drop his title and use only his family name was a huge insult to his honor. A commoner would likely be flogged for such behavior. More whispers echoed through the hall. Birall kept silent.
"Do you deny it?"
"I choose to neither confirm nor deny these allegations."
The room interpreted his response as a method of self-defense; to the Senators, it appeared that Birall did not want to say anything incriminating in public. So their questioning glances transformed into looks of horror, especially those of his own party.
"Well then, Eoghan Birall, by authority of his Imperial Majesty, Emperor Niall, you are hereby under arrest for high treason, aiding and abetting over six hundred fugitives, obstruction of justice, fraud, embezzlement, and—well, it seems rather superfluous to go on, don't you think? As we are in public, I recommend you come quietly. But if you want to do this the messy way, I'd gladly oblige."
"Sheesh, Mòrag's pissed off," Nia whispered.
Mòrag had half expected him to put up a fight, but the aghast Senators from his own party took away that possibility, practically executing the arrest for her. They dragged him from his seat and surrendered him to the guards. Inwardly, she breathed a sigh of relief. It shocked her that the Senate had not demanded proof of her allegations. In truth, she had precious little: enough to arrest for treason and the aiding and abetting charges. But she still lacked concrete evidence for the others. Brighid had been right to question her quick arrest. Only her intuition convinced her that the man behind the explosion was also responsible for outfitting the Aramach, telling them of her whereabouts when searching for Cor, and the rest of this mess. So for the Senate to believe her charges so readily...maybe the Senate's support for the crown didn't run quite as thin as she thought.
Unsurprisingly, the hours that followed were hectic. Imprisoning the disgraced Senator was the easy part. But then came the matters of confiscating his personal effects, his offices, even his household; everything he owned would be turned over with a fine-tooth comb in the days that followed. And the Gardic party had to scramble to appoint a new head Senator, which required the Emperor's confirmation. Official statements, though ambiguous, had to be made to the press. And then there was the inevitable paperwork for every official action taken.
A preliminary interrogation of the Senator occurred. True to his vow to keep silent, Birall said nothing. That only deepened Mòrag's confidence that he was guilty. An innocent man, when faced with an accusation as grave as treason, would be scrambling to defend himself. But he kept his lips as tight as a steel trap. For a man so accustomed to verbose rhetoric, silence was damning. Rather than pressing him with intense interrogation from the outset, Mòrag opted to leave to stew in a jail cell for a bit. She was in no emotional state to question him now, and maybe a few days deprived of the comforts of his station would soften him up.
To say that Mòrag fixated on the day's remaining tasks was an understatement. Brighid both admired and detested her Driver's ability to laser-focus. Usually, the talent served her well in such a demanding position. But on days like today, when even the common observer could tell that she needed to get some rest, Mòrag persisted, victim to her own dutiful tunnel vision.
"I think you've accomplished enough for one day," Brighid pointed out. "The risk of Birall escaping is over. The urgent part is past."
"I'm setting up an interrogation strategy. We have to find out what he knows. He could help us find the Aramach," Mòrag said dismissively.
"I'm putting my foot down, Mòrag. You've been working nonstop for days. Go take a break." Brighid insisted.
"I can handle three stressful days in a row. I don't need a break."
"It's only been three stressful days since the wedding, but you had plenty of busy days leading up to it. You're going to run yourself into a complete breakdown if you keep this up."
"I don't—"
"Take a break now. A walk in the palace gardens, perhaps? Do it, or I'll set fire to your desk."
The threat itself wasn't real, but Mòrag could tell the sentiment behind them was. Brighid almost always deferred to her decisions. But when it came to easing the stress her work caused—observing "self-care," Brighid called it—the Blade could be quite insistent. Almost motherly.
"Fine. I'll walk a single lap through the gardens. But only because I don't have time to rebuild my office."
Brighid gave an approving huff and pried a case file from her fingers. "And please try to think about something besides work while you're gone. It defeats the purpose."
Mòrag simply shook her head and left as ordered. In truth, it did feel good to take a break, physically and mentally. Since her birthday gala, she'd had had only one day off. Under the same circumstances, she would have ordered any of her own soldiers to take at least a day of obligatory leave; military protocol mandated no more than twelve consecutive on-duty days. That was not a protocol she adhered to personally, especially lately. Brighid often scolded her for it, claiming that an overworked Inquisitor was less effective than a well-rested one. Deep down, Mòrag knew she was right. But she could never admit that to her Blade.
Her mind wandered as she walked, so when her feet came to a stop of their own accord, she had to look around to get her bearings. The bench across from the patch she and Zeke were "tending." Of course this was where her subconscious mind had brought her.
She took a seat, mindful of her posture even though the groundskeepers had already packed up for the day. Even to her untrained eye, the patch looked almost pitiful, surrounded by the palace's ornate, bursting ones. She and Zeke had replanted new dawn hydrangea and moon flower plants after the weedkiller incident. Now there were the two blooming plants flanked by flowerless ones. It looked like an unfinished patchwork quilt. But at least there were a few flowers now—pure white blossoms mingling with yellow ones, like clouds mingling with a sunrise—flowers from seeds they planted together. Somehow, that felt like progress.
Architect, I'm a married woman.
It was a thought she had more than once in the last forty-eight hours—particularly after waking up beside him—but now the full weight of it struck her. It all happened so fast. Everything happened fast. Never in a million years would she have predicted that she'd end up married to the Tantalese prince, of all people. Her sixteen-year-old self would have laughed at the thought that the mysterious "brigand" caught trespassing on palace grounds over ten years ago would end up as her husband. She probably would have laughed at the thought even just two years ago, when she first encountered him at the Leftherian docks. Initially she was impressed by the sheer speed of his bladework, only for him to go careening off the cliff like a clumsy oaf. Not exactly the first impression she would have liked. And yet here she was, wed to him. And far less perturbed by it than she expected to be.
"You were right. Moon flowers and dawn hydrangeas do look nice together."
Zeke, right on cue, as if he knew she was thinking about him.
"There's still a lot of work to do with it, though. If only we had the time," she mused.
He took a seat beside her, much like she had done on the eve of their wedding. If they kept finding their way back to this spot, the servants would put a plaque on the bench and mark it "reserved for the royal couple." They had a blasted tendency to cordon off anything she or Niall took a particular interest in.
"Did you follow me here?"
"Not this time," Zeke admitted. "I usually take a walk down here each night."
"Ah, yes. You did mention you love flowers. I should have guessed as much," Mòrag replied, wondering if Brighid knew that Zeke came down here regularly. Surely the suggestion to take a walk in the gardens wasn't a coincidence.
"Stressed?"
"Is it that obvious?" she asked. To her own surprise, a laugh lingered in the question.
He nodded. "We got him. He can't feed them information anymore. That's huge. And we'll get the answers we need. I know it. So relax. Stressing about it isn't going to make him more likely to talk."
For a while, silence lingered between them. Then, from somewhere within the palace, soft strains of music floated past—a traditional Ardainian waltz played by a fine, full symphony.
"What's with the music?" Zeke asked.
"That'll be the royal orchestra. They're rehearsing for Hugo's Day, I think."
"Hugo's Day? What's that, like a holiday or something?"
"There's usually a state dinner to celebrate. Nothing so elaborate as the gala or our wedding, but a party all the same."
"Please don't tell me you guys have a holiday for every single emperor."
"Of course not. Emperor Hugo was special," she explained, mindlessly spinning her ring in circles on her finger. "He was our greatest war hero and a martyr. So each year on the anniversary of his death, we honor his sacrifice."
"On the day he died? Kinda morbid."
"Your entire country might not exist without his bravery, so don't criticize too much."
"Touché. But seriously, holding a fancy state dinner at a time like this? You're not going, right?"
"On the contrary. It's a military holiday. And as the figurehead of our armed forces, I'm required to attend—peace or war. In the past, I always accompanied Niall at the event. But since you and I will be attending together, he'll have to find himself another escort."
Zeke sighed, wondering what on earth would go through a girl's head when an Emperor requested her company at a state dinner. Talk about pressure. But he also found a strange sense of comfort knowing that for this party, Mòrag wouldn't have "suitors." Come to think of it, she probably preferred it that way, too.
"...Isn't 'Hugo' Niall's middle name?" He blurted, only to remember that the question might dredge up some unpleasant memories.
"His first name is an Ardanach family name, but they let me choose his middle one," she admitted quietly. "Back when I was still crown princess, I loved the histories of Hugo most of all. He was the sort of ruler I aspired to be. So when Niall was born, it just stuck."
Zeke tried to mask his relief that the question hadn't really saddened her. He stood up abruptly, extending his hand. She looked at him quizzically.
"Can't let this perfectly good dancing music go to waste now, can we?"
"You want to dance? Now?"
"Why not? Come on. We put a traitor behind bars today. That alone is worth celebrating, right?"
She shook her head but smiled and took his hand. It was nothing like their first dance at the gala, with friends betting in the background while they tried to ignore the awkwardness of a fresh, forced proposal. That dance had been tense, guarded, and stiff, only gradually shifting into the familiarity that sparked rumors and newspaper articles about a one-night stand between them. How ironic and petty that all seemed now. Tonight, however, with no one watching and no secrets left for either of them to guard, their dance was instantly at ease. Each step, each sway, every turn flowed as if carefully rehearsed. When the music peaked and he swung her into another dip, her hat clattered to the ground. But she didn't care. Now there was no reason to hide behind its brim.
The music faded, returning a moment later in a slower, softer tune. Without prompting, Mòrag let her head fall to his shoulder. Zeke pulled her close. Somehow, he liked this impromptu dance better than all the others. As pretty as she'd looked at the gala and the wedding, that wasn't her. The dresses and makeup were just a mask. Her navy military garb didn't necessarily fit the mood, but dressed like this, she was herself—no false fronts. The Mòrag in his arms now, the Special Inquisitor, she wasn't pretending anymore. And that authenticity made the fabric of her uniform feel nicer than her bare skin at the parties.
Their dance lost its rhythm, devolving into a gentle sway until they fell still. How long they lingered there in that motionless hug, neither knew.
"...May I kiss you?" Zeke whispered.
She looked up at him as though it was a silly question. "You don't have to ask for permission."
"I just don't want to upset you. Not after everything you've been through."
"I meant what I said about the kisses. They're fine. They're real."
"You aren't just saying that to make me feel better, are you?"
She brushed his skin with a few gentle kisses on his cheek and chin before finding his mouth, lingering there. "Does that answer your question?"
He hummed in response, still not releasing her from his arms. She hesitated and searched his gaze. Normally, it was so easy to tell what he was thinking; he practically screamed it with dramatic gestures and facial expressions. Tantalese royalty was definitely permitted more freedom with their emotions than Mor Ardain's. But now, she couldn't read him. She found herself wishing she could remove his eyepatch to see if looking at both eyes would help her understand his thoughts. But no. Zeke was sensitive about very little. His eyepatch made the short list of things he didn't really discuss—assuming the "eye of shining justice" was another one of his theatrics. Knowing him, it was. No one actually had power lurking in his eye, but for Zeke, it was a passable explanation. Come to think of it, she'd never seen him without the patch. Was that really because he lacked a second contact lens? Surely he could afford one now. Curiosity struck her, and for a moment, she considered pulling at the string. It would be so easy…
If he wanted to show you, he would. So what if he keeps a secret from you about his eye? You of all people can't criticize him for that. It's not your place.
"What's wrong?" she asked at last, moving her hands a bit further away from his neck, where the temptation to pull away the patch wasn't quite as strong.
"Just thinking. About Hugo."
"What about him?"
"The stories all say that he always wanted to put himself on the line for his people. And he did. He sacrificed himself for the good of his friends and countrymen. And that's got me thinking...Mòrag, would you do the same thing? If your death could somehow save your country, would you die?"
What an odd question; morbidity was so unlike him—at least, not genuine morbidity. He would joke about it, sure, but his tone betrayed the serious nature behind the current question.
"I think you know the answer to that. Any soldier would sacrifice himself for his homeland. Myself most of all."
"But what if someone didn't want you to? What if someone wanted you to survive instead?"
"Niall? He knows that duty comes before family. I'm his shield. And the needs of many cannot be outweighed by the wants of one."
Zeke frowned. "Not what I meant, but yeah. Figured you'd say that."
Mòrag paused. What else could he have meant? "Would you not do the same for Tantal?"
"A dead leader isn't much good to anyone. So I'd sure as hell try to find another way first."
"That's a bit idealistic, don't you think?"
"Maybe Rex has rubbed off on me after all. I certainly hope it never comes to that. For either of us."
"It shouldn't," she said, surprised by her own confidence. "But to keep that from happening, I should get back to work."
And "back to work" became their default setting in the days that followed. Most of it was grim work: wheedling answers out of Birall. Any hopes that the traitorous Senator would reveal his agenda quickly were dashed. Over the years, Birall entrenched himself deeply in a web of deceit—and detangling that web demanded more patience than Mòrag possessed. He endured questioning, unfazed. Even Brighid's more intense interrogations did little to rattle him.
Mòrag couldn't shake the feeling that cracking Birall was their only hope at toppling the Aramach. All of her other leads, when she left the palace to chase them, unturned dead ends. Rex had located their first base not far from the demilitarized zone. But since then, the Aramach had utilized their pirated airships and flown away. So now the clues he fought so hard to find were useless. Her staff, too, spent countless hours sifting through Birall's records: transaction histories, official and informal correspondences, bills, memorandums, and more. It was a long list. But the Senator hid his tracks well. If there were any clues in his written documents, they were not easily found.
The days dragged on into weeks, and still, Birall said nothing. The only mercy was the fact that the Aramach went all but silent during his captivity. Mòrag hoped that was a good sign—maybe they were laying low because their man on the inside had been compromised. But she couldn't shake the feeling that they were plotting something.
Meanwhile, she found herself grateful that there was always a delay between a declaration of war and the actual fighting. Even though Uraya said its vanguard was advancing on the Ardainian border, it took more than two weeks for them to actually arrive and begin an assault. The hassle of military bureaucracies came in handy for once. Since then, the Ardainian defensive perimeter had kept the Urayan forces at bay. There were, inevitably, casualties, but the conflict remained at the border. It was a good thing, too; Niall had ordered almost every single military resource to the front in an attempt to keep it that way. There weren't many reserve forces left to pick up the slack.
"Mòrag, let me take a crack at this arsehole," Zeke suggested one morning when the questioning remained ineffective. "Maybe I can get him to talk."
She scoffed. "I thought you hated the idea of torturing a prisoner. Please don't feel the need to break your convictions on my account."
"I do hate it, although I understand why it's necessary. But maybe a different approach will rattle him."
Despite her protests, Zeke could tell that she was considering his suggestion. Even though she, her Blade, and a team of soldiers all took turns doing the interrogation and torturing, it was clear that the emotional and physical exertion of doing the "dirty work" was wearing on her. He had watched some of the interrogations, mostly out of curiosity. Some of the tactics they unleashed made him sick to his stomach. But Birall's screams remained wordless. Unless the Ardainians unleashed some of their truly terrifying methods—he heard some of the soldiers muttering about them—Birall would remain uncooperative. It seemed that it was a line of torture even Mòrag was reluctant to cross.
"What do you intend to do?" she asked at last.
"He's a powerful man, right? He likes to feel like he's in control, like he's the mastermind behind all the details. Maybe playing towards his ego might loosen him up a bit."
She raised an eyebrow, then sighed. "Fine. I doubt it'll work, but at this point, I'm willing to try anything."
"Just watch from the observation room, okay? Let me go in there alone with him."
"Why?"
"I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice, but some of the men in power in your country are chauvinistic bastards," Zeke explained, hoping she wouldn't smack him for insulting Mor Ardain. But she nodded, waiting for him to proceed. "Birall might be respectful and egalitarian on the outside, but deep down, he might think he's superior to you. Hell, he probably thinks he's superior to everyone. So I'll have a 'man-to-man' chat with him. It's worth a shot, right?"
"Have it your way."
Zeke sauntered into the interrogation room, doing his best to appear the exact opposite of Mòrag: relaxed, relatively amiable, and not out for blood. He flipped on the lights—the Ardainians typically kept them dim—and grabbed a glass of water. He set it in front of the Senator.
Birall sneered. "No thanks. You've probably laced it with some sort of sedative to get me to talk."
Zeke laughed and took a swig to prove his suspicions wrong. He hadn't expected the man to speak first. Maybe that was a good sign. "Nah, chum. You just look like you could jolly use it. Frankly you could use something stronger, but this is a start, eh?"
It was the truth—the Senator looked like a shadow of his former self. His eyes were dull, his hair thinned with patches missing. Most of his skin was intact, but it was pale and blotchy, probably the result of enduring countless wounds only to have them healed and inflicted over and over again. If not for the way Birall glared daggers at him, Zeke would have thought he looked like a man on his deathbed.
Birall drained the glass, eyes never leaving his new interrogator. Zeke took that opportunity to sit down at the table across from him. He propped both legs up against and leaned back with his arms folded behind his head. Hopefully he looked completely at ease, totally informal. For this hunch to work, he needed Birall to believe he was the superior one in the room.
"Can't promise anything more than that," Zeke said cheerfully.
"You can drop your little friendly act, prince," Birall hissed the word, "and get on with it. As you probably know by now, this is a waste of time. I won't say anything."
"Look man, I'm just here to clear the air. You know, make sure you're not mad at me."
The prisoner raised a questioning brow. "Your meaning?"
"Come on, chum. It's no secret that you were on the shortlist of potentials for Mòrag's husband. If I hadn't showed up, it probably would have been your wedding. And the princess's spouse? Man, a chum like that has an easy road to the throne. I stole that out from under you. It'd be only natural to hate me for that. Some might even try to bump me off."
"The rumors are true. You really do speak like a commoner."
"Hah! You sound like my old man. No hard feelings, then?"
"None at all."
Typical Ardainian—Birall's face was impassive, impossible to read. His thoughts hid behind the same emotional armor Mòrag, Niall, and other politicians here seemed to wear. This was going to be harder than he thought. Maybe a bit of flattery?
"Good. I would have expected you to be mad. After all, my marrying Mòrag derailed your plan. And it was a really good one. One you'd been working on for months."
"And what plan would that be?"
There it was—Birall nibbled at the bait he'd thrown out.
"Oh, you know, this whole deal where you're trying to get the Ardanachs off the throne. Your bill to oust the Emperor with a no-confidence vote, being able to put in your own replacement if there was no heir, it was brilliant. Because I think you predicted that the crown would respond by trying to get Mòrag to have an heir. You knew that she'd be looking for a husband, and you'd make a great choice. That made the bill a win-win for you. Either way, you had an in to the throne of Mor Ardain. If the vote of no confidence passed, you could recommend yourself as a replacement. Or you could just marry Mòrag and worm your way in through the royal family. Quite brilliant, really. Until I showed up and messed up your plans."
"Perhaps there are a few hard feelings, then."
Not a direct confession, or anything they didn't already know, but he was talking. More than he had in weeks.
"I've got to hand it to you," Zeke added, "You're much more patient than I am. You've been playing a very long game, keeping your cards close to your chest. I would have given myself away a long time ago. And not only have you been playing a long game, but you've had multiple strategies the entire time: the Senate's bill, the arranged marriage, helping the Aramach. Three different ways of overthrowing the Ardanach dynasty. Absolutely brilliant."
Birall didn't respond, but one corner of his mouth turned upwards, like the phantasm of a smile. It disappeared quickly, but not before Zeke caught the chink in his facial armor. Mòrag probably saw it over the cameras, too.
"You're clearly one of the most brilliant men in all of Mor Ardain," Zeke continued. The false flattery felt bitter on his tongue. "Which is why I don't get it."
"What's that?"
"I don't understand how someone as wise and savvy as yourself could even get caught. I mean, Mòrag's been trying to track you down for weeks. But you kept under the radar, avoiding her detection. And believe me, she's a hard woman to hide things from. So it doesn't make sense that you would suddenly be sloppy enough to send explosives in a crate with your crest on it, right where we could find it. Bad form, really."
"I made precise calculations to ensure that the explosion would destroy every trace of evidence! Not even I could have predicted that one of the bombs was a dud!"
Bingo. The arrogant traitor could resist intense physical torture, but an insult to his intelligence threw him off completely. Zeke grinned as Birall bit his lip, realizing he'd slipped up and confessed.
Mòrag entered from the adjoining room, triumph gleaming in her eyes. Now, with some form of oral confession on record, they had Birall cornered.
"Start talking," she demanded, not sitting down. "The courts will convict you of treason for sure now. There's only one way you can avoid a one-way trip to the cemetery, Birall. And that's if you tell us everything you know. What are the Aramach planning?"
"You don't stand a chance of beating him, Ladair. They're going to crush the Ardanach household for good, with or without me. So if I die, it won't be in vain. Why, then, should I tell you anything?"
Zeke leaned forward with both elbows on the table. Not the most threatening pose for most people, but somehow, when he did it, the effect was imposing.
"You're going to tell us where the Aramach are simply because you can't resist," he replied. "After all, what's the risk? You're clearly very confident that your beloved Aramach can pummel us. If you told us where they are, you'd be sending us right into whatever trap they've set."
"Are you really so keen to rush to your deaths?" Birall retorted, a gleam creeping back into his eyes. "You have no idea what you're up against."
"Me, I'm not so scared of dying. I'd just be giving the ether stream a nice boost of energy. But I do prefer to face my impending doom head on. So tell us what you know. Then we can trot along to the Aramach's hideout, meet what you say is our inevitable doom, and you'll get to enjoy the show before they hang you for treason."
"...Crá Gleann," Birall croaked. "It's a valley along the borders of Mor Ardain and Tantal. I think you'll love the scenery."
Mòrag frowned. She'd heard whispers of the place but never visited it personally. And if Birall had given up the location so easily, she could only wonder what perils waited there. Maybe it was a trap. But it was one they had to spring. What other choice did they have?
"...Never in my wildest dreams would I have predicted that you would be a turncoat, Birall. You've always seemed so supportive of the throne," Mòrag whispered. Over the past weeks, she hoped that this was all some kind of misunderstanding—that he'd been framed, that she hadn't let a traitor run unchecked in their palace, so close to Niall. But now that he'd unintentionally admitted it, that hope was gone, replaced by a resigned disappointment in her own inability to recognize his treachery.
"I'm a good actor. Runs in the family."
"So why do this? Why do you want the Ardanach line destroyed?"
"Why for revenge, of course. Your house and your filthy jewel ruined my brother's life. And I'm helping repay that debt in kind."
"But you don't have a brother. You're the only son of the Von Birall family."
The traitor smirked, no longer hiding his emotions beneath his politician's mask. "You of all people should know that not all births are correctly documented, Lady Mòrag."
A tiny speck of terror flashed in her eyes when the implications of his statement sank in. It was barely visible, quickly buried underneath her impassive working mask, but Zeke saw it.
"This so-called brother of yours. Who is he?"
Birall shook his head. "He wants to enjoy his anonymity for a while longer. If you're so intent on knowing, go to Crá Gleann yourself. Because I've said all I'm going to say."
Mòrag simply turned on her heel and left the room, ordering the guards on duty to lock the man away until his trial. It would not be long; due to the gravity of his crime, his day in court would come quickly. Zeke got up and followed after her as she stalked through the halls. He kept silent until they were in the privacy of her office again. Brighid was there, handling some of the Inquisitor's busywork. But the Blade took one look at her Driver's face and locked the office door behind them.
In plain, businesslike words, Mòrag explained the information they'd gotten from Birall. Once she had, she turned to gaze out the window, hands clasped behind her.
"Thank you for your help, Zeke. How did you know that would work, if I may ask?"
Zeke shrugged. "I was raised by an arrogant man who liked to keep secrets. That sort can rarely stand it when someone accuses them of messing up. So I took a gamble. Glad it paid off. Now Mòrag, what did he mean when he said that your family ruined his brother's life?"
She exhaled heavily. "I have no clue who his brother is, so it's too vague of a statement to help. Because quite frankly, you could say that I've ruined a lot of lives over the years."
"Meaning?"
"I'm not so naive as to think that everyone adores me. Not the families of the rebel soldiers I've cut down. Not the men I've demoted or dismissed from the military. Not the criminals I've put behind bars. From the perspectives of those people, I've ruined many lives. I don't regret it, of course. But 'a brother whose life I ruined' could mean anyone."
"That's not the real problem, though," Brighid added. Her Driver nodded in response. "If Birall knew or even suspected the truth about the Emperor, if he somehow let that information get out, then Uraya's war won't be our only conflict."
"It can't be a coincidence, can it? But who could have possibly leaked that information?" Mòrag wondered aloud. "Brighid, track down the staff members who were living at the manor fourteen years ago. Amelia is here as my personal physician, but I want all the others accounted for and brought here. Immediately."
"Of course, Lady Mòrag."
"And then what?" Zeke asked.
"We visit this Crá Gleann and ferret out Birall's so-called brother. And then I live up to my nickname."