"Where is Selles?" Byron eyed the new member of Silverveil's inner circle with unease. Instead of the blond shopkeeper's girl, there was now a young man; a smith if one judged by the hands.
Madam Silverveil smiled at him, moved closer and let her hand rest comfortingly on Byron's shoulder, giving the young man a gentle squeeze. "Selles found that the rituals were tiring her to an unhealthy degree. I worked with her all that I could, but eventually we agreed that, to protect her, she would have to be removed from the circle." It was true that the girl had looked more fatigued as time had gone on; Byron had noticed that she seemed almost withered at times, but Selles had insisted that nothing was wrong. He shifted uncomfortably.
"I see. I should drop by her father's shop, then. Ensure that she is well," he replied, trying not to notice the angry expression that flitted briefly across Silverveil's face.
"If you must, Lord Byron. After all, I suppose I cannot hope for you to trust me, a lowborn slave, with such duties…"
He twitched, and grimaced in apology. "Not at all, Madam Silverveil! I do trust you, of course. I just thought that I might be able to help. I could ask the Healers to take a look at her, if she's feeling ill."
Silverveil shook her head. "She only needs rest, Byron. She is embarrassed enough at her own weakness; you'll only humiliate her if you bring attention to it." She suddenly smiled, that gentle, knowing expression that seemed to be only for him. "It is good of you to be concerned about a fellow seeker, but we can best help Selles by continuing the work. Once we breech the Veil, she'll know her sacrifice was worth it. I'll even let you be the one to carry the news to her," she promised.
Byron paused for a moment, torn between conflicting desires. The trust Silverveil placed in him warmed his heart; the way they shared the responsibility for the great work, the way she never turned away from his questions. He'd learned so much in the last moons, and once they had the final proof, crossed the final barrier, everyone would be better off. He believed that. He knew that.
And yet. Something about the way she said 'sacrifice' worried him. Something about the private meditation sessions with other seekers. That's just silly, Byron. You've had the same exact sessions. Nothing bad happens. It's just tiring, that's all. You're letting your guilt over skipping class invent shadows out of nothing.
Silverveil was watching him, her dark eyes anxious behind the misty cloth of her veil. He smiled, and reached up to squeeze the hand on his shoulder. "That sounds fine, Madame Silverveil. I'm sure she just needs some rest, as you said. I won't bother her," he promised, firmly stomping on the continued unease. "Let's continue, shall we?" Her smile was as bright and warm as the Havens, as she drew him towards the circle of young people.
Annice looked up as Emerauld burst into her cluttered office. The senior Healer's expression was grim, and she closed the door behind her with a gentleness that caused even more worry than the drawn lines of her face. "We have to talk. Official talk," Maud proclaimed, moving a pile of papers off one of the chairs and dropping heavily down into it.
"About…?"
Maud's eyes dropped. "We may have a plague on our hands." At the Seneschal's wordless sound of shock, she continued, "I say /may, because we have not yet identified the victim as suffering from any disease that we know of. Her father claims that she's been increasingly fatigued, exhausted, even. And now…" The Healer trailed off, shook her head.
Annice's sister was not known for her delicacy in such matters; in fact, the Herald had seen her cheerfully discuss a particularly grotesque case of boils in the middle of dinner. At Court. So her reticence now caused the Seneschal's eyes to narrow with worry. "The girl is dead?"
Maud launched herself out of the chair, rocking restlessly on her heels. "Come with me. I think you need to see this." She turned and yanked the door open, leaving Annice to scramble past the piles of paperwork to keep up with her.
The two walked out of the Herald's Collegium, into the bright spring day. It was between classes, so there were a multitude of students of the Collegia in evidence, most of them carrying books. The young people respectfully bowed their head as the teacher and Seneschal walked by, their path taking them directly for the Healers' building. Maud led the way past the classrooms, down into the sub levels. The Healers' Collegium had an extensive basement system which was mostly used for herb rooms, storage of supplies, and bodies, when necessary. So, when Maud unlocked a door for Annice, and showed her into a tiny stone cell with a sheet-covered form as its only decoration, she was not particularly surprised.
The astringent herbs the Healers had hung from the ceiling masked the smell of death, but not by much. It was a strange, oddly sweet, scent, that nevertheless made Annice feel slightly sick. But she didn't turn away as her sister reached for the sheet, and pulled it downwards, revealing the person beneath. "Bright Havens," Annice exclaimed, "what has happened to it?"
"Her," Maud replied, grimly. Possibly only a Healer could tell; the body before them was recognizably human, but too desiccated for an easy sexual identification. The contours of the skull were clearly visible beneath paper grey skin that looked dry and flaky to the touch. Most of the hair was gone, and what was left were brittle clumps of a peculiar no-color. The teeth had crumbled in the corpse's mouth. Annice had seen people dead of horrific violence in her time as a Herald, but there was an unnatural feel to this body which disturbed her terribly. Maud gave her a moment to look, then pulled the sheet back up. She was kind enough to ignore the relief on her sister's face as she did so. "And to answer your question…we don't know. We can't find anything like this in our texts."
"Nothing?" Annice shook her head in disbelief. "This is not something that would be ignored, if we'd seen it before."
"That's my thought, as well. I was hoping that there might be something in the Archives, or that you Heralds might be able to tell us something. You're the experts on magic, after all."
Annice's head snapped up as she fixed a worried look on Maud. "I know of no Gift that would do this to a person. And you know I've done studies on the more aggressive Gifts. And no Herald would /ever/…"
"That's not what I'm saying," Maud broke in, hastily. "Sis, what if this isn't Herald magic? What if we're looking at /real/ magic?"
"Imp…" Annice stopped the word in her throat, choking down the instinctive denial. A Herald learned never to think anything was impossible. Instead, she closed her eyes, and reached for her Companion with her thoughts.
Dorian was there. :Chosen? You're frightened of something.:
She sent him the mental image of the victim's face. :Have you seen anything like this, before?:
:No: he replied, although the mental voice was now shared her worry. After a moment, he continued, :Neither have the others who I can contact. What is going on?:
:I wish I knew, love.: Annice opened her eyes, but wordlessly encouraged Dorian to continue to listen to the conversation. "The Companions haven't seen this, before, either."
"Can they tell us if it's magic?" Maud shrugged at Annice's hard look. "If you have a /better/ source, sis, by all means, use it. But it can't hurt to ask."
Annice sighed, but could not refute the point. Before she could even put the idea into words, Dorian spoke up. :We cannot tell. But…Jameson might be able to.: He sounded reluctant to mention it, and Annice could not blame him. The King's Own was elderly, and ailing. Few expected him to live out the next winter, and he spent most of his time bedridden. His Court attendances could only be managed, she knew, with the mental support of his Companion, Gallifrey. And the effort tired them both out terribly. Unfortunately, he was one of the most sensitive Heralds around to the presence of Gifts and their usage, and that sensitivity had not diminished with age.
"But this…we have to know about this." At Maud's questioning look, Annice filled her in on the details, and the Healer nodded her agreement.
"I'm not happy about it; Jameson is not my patient, but I'm familiar with him, and this is going to be hard on him. But if we're looking for a disease, and it's actually some manner of curse or magic…"
"Then more people will die. And it works just as badly the same way," Annice said. "If it /is/ a disease, then we need to know that, too, so that we don't get distracted." She eyed the cloth-covered form with bleak amusement. "If only the Truth Spell worked on the dead."
Maud barked a short, humorless laugh. "If it did, we'd demand a Herald on duty with us at all times. Let's go and fetch Jameson…if we're quick, he'll still have time to rest before dinner."
:Flower-child, do you truly think that this is the right way to go about this?: Faniel asked Rhys, sounding more aggrieved than disapproving. The young Herald, crammed into a small and oddly-shaped cranny on the second floor landing of the building across from Madam Silverveil's 'parlor', grimaced.
"I'm up for better ideas, particularly since there's a pipe trying to get exceptionally personal." At Faniel's silence, he nodded, and continued in resigned tones, "Thought not, four-feet. I have to see what he's doing here. It doesn't make any sense. Why come to a two-bit shyster like this lady? From what I hear, she's no more Shin'a'in than I am!"
:Hawkbrother: Faniel supplied, helpfully.
"Whatever. It just doesn't fit, is all I'm saying. It's not like Byron. He hasn't been to class at all in nearly two months. He's surly, and suspicious, and the direct approach didn't work."
:Some might suggest that's because the young Lord does not wish you interfering in his affairs.:
"Well, the young Lord can just stuff it. I'm his friend, and he's ruining himself, Faniel. Somebody has to shake some sense into him."
:Has it occurred to you that it's not particularly unusual for a young noble of Byron's age to spend an unusual amount of time in the domicile of a female commoner?: Faniel's dry observation took on a hint of amusement as his Chosen blushed.
Rhys wavered for a moment. It wasn't as if he really wanted to interfere if Byron was…well, occupied with less scholarly pursuits. But at the same time, it just didn't fit. And every time he saw his friend, he looked worse. Tired, worried, and somehow drained. It wasn't the bearing of a man enjoying a lover. Something was wrong, and it had to have something to do with this fortune-teller. "I'm staying."
:As you wish.: his Companion replied laconically. If the other approved or not, he couldn't easily tell from the tone of the mind voice, so Rhys didn't bother trying to figure it out. Although he'd only been Chosen for about half a year, it became apparent quickly that Faniel wasn't going to tell him what he should or should not do. No, he much preferred to wait until his Chosen bungled it, and then he could be smug. :I am never smug. Merely confident.:
"Confident, my eye. Believe me, I know smug when I feel it in my head."
:Doubtless from your vast personal experience of the emotion?:
"Ha ha, horseface." He shook his head, grinning to himself, then went still. "There he is!" Byron stepped out into the street…or rather, staggered. Rhys scowled from his perch, eyeing the young man's thin frame with worry. "He's not looking good." Faniel said nothing in response, but he could feel the slow pulse of the Companion's wordless agreement through their link.
The Herald Trainee watched Byron disappear down the street, then turned his attention back to the window across the way. This was, after all, /not/ the direct approach, and if Faniel was right, and the woman was only a courtesan, then Rhys could quietly remove himself from the situation, without any difficulty. Right? Right. He peeled himself from his cramped nook, and climbed down the wall of the building, using the oddly shaped, much rebuilt, structure to cover his movements. Once he'd reached the cobblestones, he slipped into the late afternoon crowds, drifting towards Silverveil's building. Her rooms were on the second story, over a run down potter's shop, so first he strolled into the shop, and began making casual inquiries as he studied the merchandise.
The storekeeper was, apparently, quite used to people asking about the enigmatic 'hawkbrother'. That, along with the respect the Grays garnered, had him eagerly sharing everything he knew. Which, Rhys reflected sourly, wasn't exactly much. Rumors and theories, and a few things clearly thrown in just to impress the customer. She was not, it seemed, a courtesan, at least not openly. She saw clients of both sexes, of several different social classes, and in groups. She claimed to speak to the dead, to see the future, and be able to determine a person's deepest secrets. If the shopkeeper's stories were to be believed, the woman was more effective and powerful than the Circle combined (not that he said so in as many words to the Herald). Rhys left with little more real information than he'd had before. Except for one thing: Madam Silverveil left every afternoon for tea with one of her regular clients, an elderly craftswoman who no longer left her house.
Rhys found a spot out of the way with a good view of the building's door, and waited. "You don't suppose she's actually Gifted, do you?" he asked Faniel quietly, ignoring the dubious look of a passerby.
:It is…possible, although unlikely. Had she strong Gifts, there would have been some indication before now: Faniel offered, but he didn't sound terribly confident.
"You're not sure about that, are you?"
:No. We are not infallible, and to my knowledge, none of us have seen or been in her presence. She must keep to herself.: The Companion offered, with the mental equivalent of a shrug.
"Okay. So, let's go worse case scenario, here. She's Gifted. Probably Mindspeech or Foresight. Maybe the Bardic Gift…I don't know exactly how theirs works, but I've seen a Bard entrance a whole group of people." He gestured at the air, miming the stroking of a harp string. "What do we do /then/?"
:If she's abusing Gifts, we'll have to tell the Circle. There are those who can block the channels of the Gifted.:
Rhys blinked at that. "There are? Among the Heralds?"
:No. Healers and Bards. Heralds do not abuse their gifts, but it is occasionally the case that someone born with a Gift does not have the integrity to use it correctly. If one can prove that they are abusing it: Faniel mindspoke, his mental voice sounding unhappy, :then they can be prevented from being able to do such in the future. It is sometimes necessary, but never enjoyed.:
"I…hadn't thought about it," Rhys said, a shiver running up his spine. His Gifts, other than Mindspeech with his Companion, had not yet come to the fore, but just being able to speak to Faniel like this, or sharing conversation with one of his instructors, was already such a part of him that the idea of having it torn away…it was like imagining being maimed. "Gods, that's…there she is!" His eyes had remained on the door even during the mental conversation, and now they sharpened as a woman dressed in odd robes and a silver veil stepped out onto the street. She carried herself like a queen, and strode off, head held high.
Rhys took a deep breath. "All right. Let's get this done. I don't want to bring anyone else in, not unless we're sure." He heard Faniel's warm pulse of reassurance and caution, and then the Herald Trainee pushed himself from the wall, and towards the building.
