Chapter Six: Distress Call

Despite Keeper Yennen's pointed words, Percy couldn't think of the study as belonging to anyone but Frederick de Rolo. It remained exactly as he remembered—either the Briarwoods hadn't seen fit to ransack it, or more likely, Cassandra had had it restored in exacting detail. Opening the door was like stepping back in time, and suddenly he was ten years old again, face flushed and heart pounding as he prepared to face Father's quiet wrath for some mischief he'd wrought.

"Come in, Percival," Father says, his voice stern and clipped. "And close the door."

I hold my head high as I obey—it will only make things worse if I face him cringing. But all I really want to do is sink into the carpet and disappear. I've done wrong, and I know it. I've not behaved the way a nobleman should. I've brought shame upon myself.

Worse, I've disappointed Father.

That's what is written on his face, in his posture, as he sits behind the desk and watches me. Disappointment, not anger. And that roars louder in my mind than the most furious shout ever could.

I stand in the center of the family crest and try not to hold my breath. I can always tell how upset Father is by how much of my name he uses at this point. "Percy" means I'm in for a gentle reminder. "Percival" means a sterner rebuke. "Percival de Rolo" foretells more serious consequences.

"Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo the Third, I am extremely disappointed in you."

I swallow hard. I am in very big trouble, indeed.

He doesn't continue immediately, only staring at me. Studying me. I don't know if he's considering his next words, or waiting for me to offer some excuse or explanation for my behavior. Finally, I can stand the silence no longer. "Vesper started it!" I protest.

His face hardens. "And she, too, will face the consequences of her actions," he says. "But we are here to discuss how you responded to her provocations."

I hang my head, too ashamed to maintain eye contact any longer. "Yes, Father."

Everything looked the same as it had then. Polished wood bookcases lined the walls, laden with texts on every subject imaginable. Frosted glass lampshades adorned the sconces between them. The great desk in the center of the room, constructed of dark, richly stained and polished Parchwood timber, gleamed in the warm sunlight that streamed in through the large window behind, and the deep, soft carpet still bore the de Rolo crest on the floor before it. Thick, dark green velvet curtains hung nearly to the floor. The smell of wax and paper and ink permeated the air, and the silence was punctuated by the faint ticking of a clock.

Percy slowly turned toward the sound, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. After all this time, it couldn't possibly still be here. Surely it would have been lost, or destroyed, or…

But there it was, on the bookshelf just to the right of the door: an intricate mechanism in gold and glass and crystal, clear panels proudly displaying the polished brass workings within. The clock he'd made for his parents on the occasion of their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Not only had it survived, it still functioned, still accurate after seven years. It stood as a gleaming memory of better times made tangible.

I wrap the clock in thick velvet to muffle the ticking, and place it gingerly in the box I've constructed for it. Clicking the golden latch shut, I listen for a moment to make sure no sound escapes to spoil the surprise, and I hear nothing. I cannot help but smile. This will be a fitting gift, indeed, for the Lord and Lady of Whitestone.

I have asked them to meet me in Father's study, but I didn't tell them why. Curious but indulgent, they agreed, and are likely there waiting for me right now.

The door is closed when I arrive, so I knock. "Enter," Father calls out, and as I open the door, I find him and Mother releasing each other from an embrace. It warms my heart to see that, even after twenty-five years and seven children, they are still so very much in love.

"I've made you something," I tell them, and hold out the box in both hands. "A gift for your anniversary. A sort of… celebration of time."

Mother takes the box, her eyes sparkling. "That's wonderfully sweet of you, Percival. Thank you very much." She sets the box on the desk and turns to Father. "Frederick, dear heart, would you like to do the honors?"

"Certainly." Father pats my shoulder as he steps past me, and I take a moment to bask in the glow of the rare gesture of affection.

He opens the box and lifts out the velvet-wrapped package. "Careful, it's fragile," I blurt out.

With a nod, Father sets it gently on the desk and peels back the fabric. Mother gasps. "Oh, Percy, it's beautiful!" she exclaims.

Father turns to look at me, a wide smile on his face, his eyebrows raised. "You made this?" he asks.

"Yes, sir," I reply with no small amount of pride. I've outdone myself, and I know it. Their reactions have proven that already.

Perhaps it's my imagination, or perhaps it's only a trick of the lamplight, but for a moment I can almost swear there are tears in Father's eyes. "Thank you, son," he says warmly. "We shall treasure this forever."

Swallowing thickly around the lump that rose in his throat, Percy picked up the clock with trembling hands and turned it around. There on the back, in his own early and slightly unsteady attempt at engraving, the message was still clearly legible: For my parents, Lord Frederick and Lady Johanna de Rolo. With love, Percival. Short and simple—he hadn't been much of a poet at sixteen.

To be fair, he thought with a small chuckle, he still wasn't.

He began to set the clock back down on the shelf. Then stopped, turned, and placed it on the desk instead. As he did, a knock sounded at the door. "Come in," he called out.

The door swung open to reveal a tall, muscular man in the armor of the Pale Guard of Whitestone, an officer's insignia on his shoulder and his helmet tucked under his arm. He carried himself with military precision. "Captain Balthazar Garron, reporting as ordered, Lord de Rolo."

"Yes, thank you, Captain," said Percy. "Please, sit." He gestured to one of the two chairs in front of the desk, but remained standing himself. Sitting at the head of the table on the great hall had been unsettling enough, but to sit behind that desk… he just wasn't ready.

Of course, he couldn't let Garron see any of that. "I trust you've brought the information I requested?" he asked brusquely.

Garron reached into a pouch at his side, pulled out a few sheets of paper, and handed them to Percy. "Yes, sir. Copies of the guest list, duty roster, and staff assignments from the night Lady Cassandra was attacked, as well as a summary of my investigation so far. I have provided a copy of each to Vax'ildan and Vex'ahlia, as well."

"Very good. I appreciate your initiative in that regard.' Percy leaned a hip against the desk as he scanned the paged, searching for anything that jumped out at him. Almost immediately, something did. "These names here, on the guest list—Luminance, Beacon, Radiance, Aurora, Solstice, Blaze, Kindle—none with any surnames given, and with too consistent a theme to be coincidental. I assume this was the delegation from The Righteous?"

"Aye, that they were. Obviously assumed names, of course."

"Obviously," Percy repeated. "Was any effort made to learn their true identities before they met with my sister?"

Garron pressed his lips into a thin line. "I inquired a bit, but they closed ranks immediately. Refused to acknowledge their lives before being, as they put it, 'reborn into the Dawnfather's glory.'" He shrugged apologetically. "It's not unusual for cults like that to give their members new names like that, so I didn't push too hard. Didn't want to stir things up even more. I… I'm sorry, milord, I should have pushed harder."

"No, I probably would have thought the same," Percy sighed. "But this is going make identifying Cassandra's attacker that much more difficult." He pulled another page out of the stack. "You've arranged for all the guards on duty that evening to come and see me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I'd like you to stay here while I question them. You know these men better than I; if any of them are acting suspicious, you would know it before I would. I want you let me know if you notice anything strange or off-kilter."

"Of course, sir," said Garron with a sharp nod. "Shall I send the first one in?"

"Please."

Percy spent the remainder of the morning and well into the afternoon questioning the guards, gradually piecing together a picture of the events of that day. The representatives of The Righteous had arrived at precisely the agreed-upon time. One of the Pale Guard had searched each of them for weapons and, finding none, had escorted them into the castle. There, they had met Cassandra and her delegation of advisors: Captain Garron, Father Tharivol from the Zenith, Keeper Norii from the Lady's Chamber, and newly appointed Chancellor Kahlio Herad. Greetings had been stiff but polite, and talks had begun without incident.

(Percy couldn't help but smile at Cassandra's shrewdness in having members of the clergy visibly on her side. It was positively inspired.)

Four guards had been posted in the great hall during the meal: two by the main doors, looking up the length of the table toward Cassandra's seat, and two on the opposite wall, facing back toward the doors. Between them, they had visibility on nearly every square inch of the room. Nothing should have escaped their eyes.

Until a noise had distracted them. A loud bang and the sound of stone crumbling had come from outside, reverberating through the castle until the floor trembled. All four guards had rushed to the windows, weapons drawn, and looked out to see… nothing. And they'd turned around just in time to see Cassandra collapse with a dagger lodged in her stomach and pumping poison into her blood.

All the guards' accounts were more or less consistent, a testament to the finely honed perception and observation skills their training had taught them. But even so, there was little of actual use.

The whole time, Percy watched Garron watching them. Yes, Cassandra trusted him enough to have appointed him Captain of the Pale Guard, and Percy trusted her judgement. Nevertheless, Garron was a completely unknown quantity to him. He needed to see for himself if the man seemed honest.

And he did. As he dismissed the last guard, Percy was forced to admit that neither Garron nor any of his men were likely to be involved in the incident. They were simply too forthcoming, almost eager to submit to his interrogation. They wanted this mystery solved almost as badly as he did.

But before he could begin to discuss next steps with Garron, a voice hissed in the back of his mind—a message sent through the Earring of Whisper. Vax's voice, terse and urgent. "Percival, if you can hear me, come to the great hall. Jenga. I repeat, Jenga."