With every step Rhys took towards the building, he found the nervous apprehension leaving his body, as if it seeped through the soles of his boots and into the cobblestones of the city. For the first time in weeks, he felt as if he was finally doing something about the worry that had dogged his steps. Okay, he admitted to himself as he hurried past a cart, it wasn't perhaps the most intelligent thing to do, and if he got caught he might very well find himself serving out the rest of his Trainee days at a Guard post in the middle of nowhere. Even so, his heart became lighter.
He swung wide as he crossed the street, keeping an eye on the shopkeeper he'd been questioning earlier; the man might recognize him. But luck was with him this time, as the potter was involved in a discussion with a haughty looking lady's maid, and seemed to need all of his conversation. Rhys slipped into the stairwell and climbed up the narrow wooden stairs to the second story. There was no writing on the door, simply a crude painting of a pair of blue eyes behind a grayish cloud of smoke, along with a painted coin, indicating that the services were for sale or trade. Rhys glanced down the stairs. Still empty, so he leaned one ear against the door, holding his own breath while he listened for the faint sounds that might indicate that Silverveil left someone behind. Nothing. Nothing but the beat of his own heart, and the whisper of his blood in his ears. He let out his breath in a pleased sigh, then reached for the knob of the door.
It was locked, of course. Rhys closed his eyes to concentrate on the feel of the metal on his hand, and called upon his Gifts. The world came back into focus, although a peculiarly flattened vision, as his Farsight opened. He directed his focus to the other side of the door, struggling to turn it towards the wooden surface. There; the door was secured by a simple iron latchlock, where the latch could be operated by hand from the inside, or with a key from without. The trainee almost sagged with relief, then called upon his weakest Gift.
Almost immediately, a dull headache began to throb at his temples, his body trembling as if he was trying to lift his Companion over his head. Biting down on his lower lip, he continued to concentrate; slowly, painfully slowly, the latch began to move in its slot. When it finally slid back with a barely audible click, he sagged against the door in relief and pain, bright stars going off behind his closed eyes. "Gods, that's never going to be easy."
:It will, one day. Easier, at least. You must be careful, flower-child: Faniel warned, and Rhys winced as even this light, beloved mindtouch made his head ache even more. :Your Gifts are barely awakened.:
"Yeah, well," Rhys muttered, and shrugged. The door creaked as he pushed it open and slipped inside. The salon was a large, airy room that was decorated in pillows and lengths of cheap tulle cloth in a variety of pastel colors. They hung everywhere, fluttering in the breeze he made as he walked around, giving the room an air of unreality. A whole bolt of the stuff, studded with lines of beads, blocked off the main room from what, he supposed, were Silverveil's private quarters. The room smelled…odd. Fragrant and thick, the scent lingered on the tongue, almost heavy enough to be felt. It wasn't exactly unpleasant, or pleasant, for that matter. "I don't recognize that at all."
A quick sweep of the outer room gave him little of interest; there was an offering bowl, and the number of coins suggested that Silverveil made a good profit plying her trade. He found a small drawer of incense that smelled like the room, and scooped a little of it into one the pouches on his belt. The healers could probably tell him if it was dangerous, or just odd. He crossed the room, frowning to himself. "Well, what were you expecting, Rhys? Flayed skulls or a Karsite war band camped in the front room?" He chuckled, and shook his head as he reached for the curtain and pulled it back.
The room beyond was much darker. The one window was covered in a thick drape of cloth, so the only light was that which drifted in from the front room, through the gauzy curtains. Rhys could see why; the shabby living quarters would entirely ruin what air of mystery and allure the front room managed. There was a scarred wardrobe directly in front of him; a quick look confirmed that it held several long dresses, and some godawful thing that was probably some idea of a Hawkbrother outfit. Admittedly, Rhys had never seen one of the fabled forest dwellers in the flesh, but he was pretty sure they probably didn't have costumes that had feathers /there/. For one, it had to tickle terribly. To the right of the wardrobe, closest to the shrouded window, there was a vanity with a polished piece of metal as the mirror. Various toiletries rested on its splintered surface, along with a dogtoothed comb, and a few cosmetic pots.
"If that offering bowl is anything to go by, she should be able to afford better than this, Faniel," Rhys muttered, reaching out to stroke the top of one of the jars. "Where is the money going?"
:Drugs, perhaps. Or favors. If one of her 'powers' is the ability to tell the present or the future, she may be relying on informers.:
"Or making the future for herself," Rhys suggested, grimly. As much as the Crown tried to make life bearable for all Valdemar's people, there were still places, even in the capital city, where enough coin could buy men and women willing to make sure that a certain person had a very bad day, if you were inclined to it.
:You don't know that, Rhys: Faniel cautioned. :Don't let your dislike of what Byron is doing provoke you to condemn this woman based on speculation.:
Rhys bit back his first response, forced himself to acknowledge the point. Just because he was vaguely disturbed by the cheap feel of the place didn't mean that the woman was doing anything wrong. Or anything more wrong than talking the gullible out of their money; and if that was a crime, then most of the Merchants' Guild would have to be locked in irons. "You're right," he finally said, with a sigh. "I think we're wasting our time. If Byron /wants/ to spend his time and his family's money supporting this woman…"
"…help…" The whisper was barely audible, a ragged, dry sound that snaked through the air of the room from the corner beside the bed. Rhys hurried in that direction. The bed was a narrow cot, with a straw filled mattress and tattered sheets. As he watched, one of those sheets moved, then a couple of skeletal fingers made their way up over it, trying grab on. "…ple…ase. Help…"
Rhys jumped forward, scrambling to look over the other side of the bed. A…well, it was probably a woman. It was wearing a dress over its emaciated frame, the head lolling backwards as it, she, stared up at him. Dull brown eyes pleaded with his own, her lips moving, although nothing came out but the faintest breath. "Gods save us," Rhys whispered. "Faniel. Fan, I need you outside."
:On my way!: He sent the Companion a pulse of wordless horror, unable to even speculate on what had withered the woman so badly. Carefully, he pulled her into his arms, her body going limp. It was far lighter than any human being should be; it was more like carrying a bundle of sticks, wrapped in cloth, than anything else. Outside, he heard shouts of protest, and the ring of Companion's hooves on stone.
"C'mon, just hang on, miss. We'll get you help," Rhys promised, his voice strained as he struggled back through the room and down the stairs. Oh, Byron, what have you gotten yourself into?
Jameson's breathing filled the chill room with its slow, steady rattle. The elderly Herald was wrapped in almost a dozen blankets, his paper-pale skin stretched over fine boned features that had been handsome at one time. Now, Annice reflected sadly, he bore more resemblance to the corpse on the table than it was comfortable to think about. His eyes were still bright, though, black and keenly intelligent as they surveyed the shrouded body. He looked up at her, and mindspoke, :I will need to touch the body. Is that all right?: Jameson rarely spoke out loud any more, but his mindvoice was still strong, warm, and at this moment, saddened by the sight before them.
Annice looked to Maud. "He'll need to touch the body. Is that going to mess anything up?"
"We're still not sure if it's a disease," Maud said, giving Jameson a concerned look. "You're not in the best of shape as it is, Herald…"
:I am dying. Best to do it in the pursuit of duty than as a forgotten old man: Jameson replied sharply in Annice's mind. She relayed the message, and Maud's lips twitched upwards in a smile.
"Damned Heralds. Not a one of you has listened to a Healer's advice before, so why start now?" She gestured at the body, nodding her permission, and Annice moved to help the King's Own make his way across the stone floor to the table. His body held the remnants of his former muscular nature, he was surprisingly solid for such an old, thin man. But she could feel the tremble running through him at even such a short trip, and the rattle in his throat was worse.
It took Jameson a few minutes to regain his breath and stand on his own. When he did, his hands moved out, thin and white, to touch the woman's desiccated face. The Herald's eyes closed, his breath evening out into the pattern of focus the Circle used when falling into trance-state. Annice and Maud held their breaths, the former's hands hovering just beyond the elderly man's back, in case he needed support. The time crawled by, and even her Companion was silent in the back of Annice's mind, a curious feeling in her head, as if he was distracted by something happening elsewhere.
Then, Jameson sagged, all of the strength running out of his body as his eyes fluttered open again. The rattle in his throat was terrible and deep, his eyes fixed on a far away point. "Maud!" The word was scarce out of her mouth before her sister was there, reaching for him, and reaching for Annice's power with her mind. They flowed seamlessly together, Annice offering what she had to give, and the Healer using it to enhance her own Gift.
"Veil…" Jameson reached for Annice's hand, squeezing it with surprising strength, even as his legs began to seize. "Silver…veil…took it all…too much." His voice was as dry as parchment, rusty from disuse, but his eyes held hers with fever-bright intensity.
"What do you mean? What veil?"
Maud snapped, "Don't make him talk, Annice! I'm trying to…" her voice trailed off as she turned her concentration back to the task at hand. Her face was drawn and anxious, never a good sign.
And Jameson shook his head, spoke again, forcing the words out with what Annice instinctively knew was the last of his strength. "It is not meant that the barrier be breeched. Tell…tell the boy he must…not…" The Herald's eyes closed, and the silence, the absence of the elderly man's rasping breath, weighed heavily on them both.
Annice didn't have to look at her sister to know he was gone, but she did anyway. Maud's eyes were bright with moisture, and she shook her head just as the Death Bell began to toil. She heard it not with her ears, but in her mind, as the web that bound the Circle together reverberated with the loss of one of its own.
Behind them, the scrape of leather on stone, and a muffled gasp. Annice looked up and around, still holding Jameson in her hands, to see a young Herald-Trainee, his Grays dusty, cradling a woman in his arms. A woman that looked as wasted and drained as the one currently on the table. He was covered in sweat, panting from exertion, and his eyes were wide with shock. He looked all of twelve, and a scared twelve at that. From somewhere, Annice managed to drag his name. "Trainee Rhys." His head jerked in a nod. He offered the body in his arms to them, and the woman moaned, a broken little sound.
It caught Maud's attention as only the wounded could, and the Healer stood up quickly. "Come here, boy. Put her down on the floor for now. How did you find us down here?"
"H-healer Tomas. Is the King's Own…"
"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to, boy," Maud snapped as she directed him to the place she indicated. He put the woman down with great care, even as Annice did the same with Jameson's body, lowering the old man gently to the floor. Good bye. We were never friends, but I hope the Havens are all they say, for none deserve them if you did not.
She blinked her eyes rapidly, then stood up, moving to the boy. "Where did you find this one?"
"I…uh…that is, in the rooms of 'Madam Silverveil'. I think she did this, but I don't know how. I have a friend who might be involved, but I'm sure he never would have been a part of anything that would have hurt anyone…"
"Hold." Rhys fell silent at Annice's brief command. She exchanged a look with Maud. "Silverveil. Silver veil. Who is this?"
He shook his head. "I don't…she tells fortunes, things like that. I only went because Byron was looking so…tired. And he's still skipping classes. I just didn't know what else to do." The wideness of his eyes told her that there was something in this the child was terrified he was going to be punished for. Ordinarily, she'd find out exactly what that was, but for the moment, other priorities ruled.
"Can you take us there? Now?"
"Yes, of course!"
Annice looked to Maud, only to receive a curt shake of the head in return. "I can't, Annice. This woman is a fingerwidth from death as it is. I need to be here, and I need more Healers. Send them down on your way."
"I can fetch…" Rhys started, but Annice grabbed his arm, began dragging him out of the room.
"You're coming with me, Trainee. We'll send someone as we pass." She thought of Jameson's last words. "I think we may need you. And a squad of Guards."
