They were awakened the next morning by the guards of the garrison stoking the fire. Arden sat up, feeling stiff, hungry, and in need of a bath. Beside him, Z'mona sat up and tried in vain to make his hair lie flat.
"Where might you be off to?" the captain asked them, probably as a heavy hint for the adventurers to depart as soon as possible.
"Whitebrim, if we can," said Arden. "Are there any passes on this side of the mountains, or must we backtrack to Camp Dragonhead?"
"Aye, Daniffen Pass," said the captain. He pointed to a map on the wall, indicating a narrow thread along the western edge. "Supposed to be the very path the saint tread at one time. Giants use it sometimes, but we try to keep it clear. Best be on your way bright and early."
The party shared a little of the inevitable onion soup and hard bread, then set out. It was a fresh, clear morning, with blue shadows making long streaks across the new-fallen snow. Biggs and Wedge rode borrowed chocobos, and stayed close to Cid, as if afraid to let him out of their sight. Cid didn't seem to mind this. As they rode, he asked them questions about airships, which they were happy to answer.
Arden rode in front, weapon close to hand. The snow of the night before had added a fresh, soft blanket to the road, which here was delineated with stone posts every few hundred feet. The road wound westward, around the feet of the corrupted crystals protruding from the mountainside, then turned north and ascended steeply into the mountains. Their chocobos' feet made a hushing sound as they tramped along.
Alphinaud guided his chocobo alongside Arden's. "As much as my heart rejoices to have recovered some of the Scions, yet I fear we have tarried overlong. The Ixal summoned Garuda days ago. Even now her winds grow fiercer over the eastern mountains as she drains the land of aether."
"We've gained our engineers," Arden said, "yet we have no more fighters than before. I still think that if we could bring in Arenvald, you and I could hold our own. I only wish we had someone to ask how she fights. I know nothing of this primal."
"Alas, the last ones to deal with her were the Woods Wailers of Gridania, five years ago," said Alphinaud, shaking his head. "I don't believe many of them survived, and those that did had their memories wiped in the Calamity. The records I've found say only that she is the mistress of the winds."
"Wear a jacket," said Arden with a laugh.
Z'mona drew up on Arden's other side, ears pricked. "What are you saying that draws a laugh from our somber Auri friend?"
"I was speaking of Garuda, primal of the Ixal," said Alphinaud. "She is no laughing matter. Left alone, Ishgard will soon be caught between dragons on one side and a goddess of the wind on the other."
"Ah, so it was a cynical laugh," said Z'mona, giving one, himself. "If the people of this Whitebrim refuse us aid, I know not what to do afterward."
"Take Cid home and put him to work in the Ironworks, I suppose," said Arden. "He seems the most himself when tools are in his hands. It seems amnesia doesn't apply to mathematics."
"Having come this far," said Alphinaud, "I am loath to give up on recovering the lost airship. But we shall see what transpires."
The mountains drew in around them and they found themselves traversing the floor of a narrow canyon. Although they saw the traces of wild animals, they saw none.
Just before noon they emerged on a mountainside so bright with snow that it dazzled the eye. The weather had cleared for once, the clouds high and blue. Below them they saw the towers and stone walls of the keep Whitebrim Front. It was built at the edge of a deep chasm where the mountains fell away into unguessable depths filled with mist. In the distance rose Foundation, the capital city of Ishgard itself. It appeared to have been torn down and rebuilt so many times that it had slowly climbed higher and higher, above the misty floor of the chasm, and now stood in many tiers like a wedding cake, crowned with towers and harpoon guns. A long stone bridge with several gates linked it to the mountainside a few miles off.
The little party on their chocobos halted to rest and take in the view.
"Aye, there lies the city," said Biggs, gesturing with a meaty hand. "But you'll never see the inside without an invitation. They don't allow in outsiders. Scared we might be heretics, see."
Arden glanced at the ring on his horn and clenched his jaw. If his people had died of persecution in that place, then he wanted nothing to do with it.
"A pretty sight, but helps us not," said Alphinaud. "Let us try our luck with Whitebrim. Perhaps the Twelve will favor our steps."
For a while it seemed to be going well. The guard at the gate was reluctant to let them through, even after they showed him their letter of introduction, due to their meddling with the heretic situation. But when they protested that they had just saved Lord Francel he acquiesced, and they were allowed to enter the main tower and climb to the command room at the top.
Lord Drillemont wore the bell insignia of House Durandaire on his shoulder. A high house they'd yet had few dealings with. They must be careful to make a good impression. Arden touched Alphinaud's shoulder and gave him a warning look. The boy acknowledged with a nod. Then he stepped forward and bowed.
"Thank you for receiving us on such short notice, Lord Drillemont. We bear with us a letters from Lord Haurchefant and House Haillenarte explaining our mission." He handed over the letter.
Drillemont was a harsh-looking Elezen with a sharply-trimmed beard and a balding forehead. He snapped the letter open with the irritable jerk of a man who lacks time for this and read the message within. Then he scanned their group with a skeptical look.
"You wish to brave an outpost filled with scalekin in search of an airship that may or may not be there? Unless you be the very avatar of the Fury herself, you wouldn't last an hour."
"We are the Scions of the Seventh Dawn," said Alphinaud gravely. "I trust you know our name and deeds, for Minfilia herself had dealings with your House at one time."
Drillemont grunted.
Alphinaud continued, "We come to Coerthas to slay Garuda, lady of the vortex. To that end, we seek the Enterprise, airship of Master Cid nan Garlond, who stands before you." He gestured to Cid, who stood a little behind him. Cid bowed.
"Cid Garlond?" Drillemont exclaimed in genuine shock. "But that's impossible. You died in the Calamity."
"Not quite, I'm afraid," Cid replied. "But I hit my head and forgot many things."
Drillemont stared at him in amazement. "No wonder you seek this airship, hopeless though it may be." He turned to his officers, who stood around a table covered in maps and papers. "Suppose we draw up an expedition plan–"
"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," said a new voice.
Arden turned with an inner groan. Ascending the tower stairs toward them was Inquisitor Guillaime in his official blue robe, looking frostier than the mountains outside.
Lord Drillemont hurriedly bowed. "Inquisitor! You honor us with your presence."
Guillaime tucked his hands into his sleeves and stood gazing at the little group with hatred in his eyes. "They make many outrageous claims, do they not? Do not be deceived by their honeyed words. These foreigners are not to be trusted. At this critical moment in Ishardian history, as House Durandaire marshals it's forces to retake the Stone Vigil, who should appear but three mysterious strangers? Cid Garlond–missing and presumed dead since the Calamity–and two Scions of the Seventh Dawn, a defunct band of misfits recently exterminated by the Empire."
Alphinaud's hands curled into fists.
But Guillaime was not finished. Having made his case, he thrust his jab home. "The lesser houses have been duped by these grandiose lies, but I should hope that House Durendaire has more sense. I know not why this group seek the Stone Vigil, but we cannot allow them to pass."
Arden watched Drillemont's countenance harden. The Inquisitor obviously possessed his entire faith, for he turned to the Scions with a frown. "Thank you for your counsel, Inquisitor. For a moment I nearly believed this mummer's farce." He pointed at Alphinaud. "You will not enter the Stone Vigil until we have reclaimed it–and until you state your true intentions, as well. You are dismissed." He turned his back on them.
The group had no choice but to file down the stairs in silence. Inquisitor Guillaime watched them go with a satisfied smirk. Arden imagined burying his fist in that smug face.
They didn't speak until they reached the courtyard, where they gathered beside a stone fountain now filled with ice.
"It could be months before they retake the Stone Vigil!" Alphinaud erupted in an undertone. "We cannot afford to wait that long!"
"That Inquisitor hates us," said Z'mona. "Sneering about how the Scions were wiped out. The slime!"
"And yet we know next to nothing about the man," said Cid thoughtfully. "Perhaps we ought to ask around. Does anyone know what House he belongs to?"
Everyone shook their heads.
"Well then," said Cid with a smile. "Let's see if they'll give us a bite to eat, and see what we can learn."
The cook in the mess hall gave them black bread and the usual onion soup. "But what I wouldn't give for some venison," he sighed. He sized up Arden. "How are you at hunting, outsider? You want to loosen men's lips, fill their bellies."
"I'm not bad, I suppose," said Arden. "I did see tracks further up the mountain, but I have seen no deer."
"If you're willing, I'll tell you where there's a salt lick," said the cook. "The deer visit it at dusk. I'll lend you a bow and plenty of arrows, if you wish."
Arden was ready to put all of Coerthas behind him at that point, so the chance to spend time in the wilds appealed to him. He left the other Scions to snoop around Whitebrim Front, helping with odd jobs and talking with the men. Arden and Z'mona went hunting.
As it turned out, Z'mona was a natural hunter, as Miqo'te tended to be. He figured out how to read the crude map the cook had sketched for them, found the best vantage point to watch the salt lick from, and never grew tired of waiting.
Arden watched the sun slip lower and a bank of clouds loom over the horizon. For a few hours the sun had warmed his back and spoken of the summer months in the lowlands, but now the blast of the magically broken climate returned. He thought of that splash of corrupted crystals across the mountainside and wondered how much of Coerthas had been forcibly aspected to ice aether.
A small group of deer filed into the clearing at the foot of the cliff. A dark spot in the rocks had been worn away from the deer licking at it for generations. Arden selected the largest among them, took careful aim, and let the arrow fly. It found its mark just behind the left foreleg, striking straight to the heart. The deer leaped in the air and fell dead. The other deer bounded away, and Arden and Z'mona hurried to inspect their kill.
A few hours later, they hauled the carcass into Whitebrim Front, the deer draped across Arden's shoulders. This time the gate guard let them pass without challenge, his eyes lighting up at the sight of fresh food.
The cook greeted them with delight. "The mighty hunters return! I will slow roast the venison tonight. The men will eat well for the next few days!"
They were given bunks in the barracks, where they put their heads together and discussed what they'd learned.
"The Holy See has decreed that Inquisitors are arbiters of Halone's will," said Alphinaud in an undertone. "They are to be afforded the utmost courtesy and respect. To that end, our own beloved Inquisitor has only been on the job a few months, yet has already caught dozens of heretics."
"I can't tell what House he's from," added Wedge, swinging his feet from his seat on a bunk. "But I did learn that he goes for days without sleep in his quest for heretics. Seems odd."
"There's a fellow in the infirmary," said Cid. "Said he met the Inquisitor the night he arrived. Took a bad fall down the canyon, the Inquisitor saved his life."
"In the infirmary, eh?" said Arden. "I might pay him a visit tomorrow."
"You healers can go more places than the rest of us," said Alphinaud, looking at Arden as if he'd never seen him before. "I'd like to accompany you, if you don't mind. Seems there might be more to learn, and who better to learn it than our own white mage?"
The Whitebrim infirmary was housed in a cold stone building barely warmed by the fires burning in the various rooms. About half the rooms were occupied by wounded soldiers. Arden and Alphinaud visited the next morning.
They were greeted by the head healer, Astidien. He was a fair, golden-headed Elezen with a face inclined to smile, which he did when Arden passed him a covered dish from the head cook. "Fresh venison," said Arden. "Just arrived last night."
"Bless the Fury, I've not tasted meat in days," said Astidien, setting the dish on a nearby table. "I'll beg the cook to brew up a cauldron of broth for my patients. It'll do the men so much good." He smiled at Arden. "Is there aught I can help you with, sir?"
"I rather thought I might help you," said Arden. He pulled out his credentials from the Twin Adders. "I'm a registered White Mage under the oversight of the padjals of Gridania. My friends spoke to some of the injured men here, and I thought perhaps you might have need of my services."
Astidien studied his papers for a long moment, his brows drawn together. "A white mage," he murmured. "Can you perform white magic for me as proof?"
Arden conjured a lily and let it bloom slowly in his hands, its light casting a scattering of motes across the ceiling and walls. Astidien stared at it and his smile returned. "I haven't seen one of those in years. All right, then, please forgive my doubt. White mages rarely leave the forests, and they tend to avoid Coerthas. Please come with me, I have several patients who will benefit from your skill."
Alphinaud remained by the fire in the waiting room as Arden visited patient after patient, easing their various wounds and sicknesses with his lilies. He thought wistfully of the further studies he was missing, and resolved to further his education at the earliest opportunity.
After a few hours, he was taken to visit Joellaut, the soldier who had encountered the Inquisitor upon his arrival. His skull and spine had been badly broken, and even after months of healing therapy, still could not move his legs. He did, however, have sensation in them, so the healers held out hope that he might recover one day.
Arden searched the man's back with gentle fingers, then applied three very small, gentle lilies to the break. As he worked, he said, "I hear tell that you owe your life to Inquisitor Guillaime."
"Oh yes," said Joellaut, lying on his side with his eyes closed. "By the Fury, that feels good. Don't stop. I haven't seen the Inquisitor since he brought me here, of course. He's been busy doing Halone's work in rooting out heretics."
"What happened that day?" Arden asked, as if making casual conversation to a patient.
"Wasn't day at all," said Joellaut. "My memories are a bit hazy, but I do recall that there was a bitter blizzard that day, and I had the ill luck to take the night watch. While the stronghold slept, I walked the walls and patrolled the perimeter in darkness black as pitch. My route took me outside the eastern gate at one point. I looked up and saw a silhouette illuminated by the lights of the city, which was the only landmark I could discern in the mirk. Thinking it was a wayward traveler, I called out and tried to reach the man before he could tumble into the chasm, but slipped and took a terrible fall. I awoke days later in this very bed, where I have lain ever since. I tried to rescue him, but in the end, Inquisitor Guillaime rescued me, carrying my unconscious body to the gates. I owe him my life, sir, and one day I hope to repay his kindness."
"Quite a story," said Arden, rapidly cataloging the details to relate to his friends later. "You're fortunate to be alive, my friend." He turned to the attentive Astidien. "Is that enough or shall I work on him some more?"
Astidien inspected the man's back and pressed one instrument after another to the broken place. "I do believe you've made a difference. Let's let him rest for now and see if his body can do the rest. Also, Joellaut, we'll get some venison broth into you."
"We have venison?" Joellaut asked eagerly. "Lord Drillemont actually spared a hunting party from the Stone Vigil siege?"
"I'm not certain, yet the cook is working his usual miracles," said Astidien. "I'll see to it that your luncheon is a good one."
Arden worked until nearly noon, and at last had dispersed his white magic among all the wounded. He had also made a friend for life in Astidien. The healer brought him lunch himself, and ate with him alongside the other chirugeons.
"I confess, I was inclined to dislike you on sight," said Astidien. "We see few Auri here, and those we do see behave in dragonish fashion. We thought them uncouth and brutish. Yet seeing your way with patients, your skill with white magic, makes me revise my opinion of your people. Were you born in Eorzea?"
"Nay, I am a native of the Azim Steppes in Othard," said Arden. "I came to Eorzea for education in the healing arts. Our tribes suffered greatly after the Calamity and I lost friends and family for want of healers. I swore that when I became a man, I would travel to Eorzea and learn healing at the feet of the greatest healers of the land."
"Ah, that explains the accent," said Astidien. "It's slight, but still there. Well, whatever gods you may serve, may your actions this day win you the favor of Halone. She does not smile only upon warriors, but the merciful."
"I am a man of Azim," said Arden proudly. "Yet, I also find myself entangled with Hydaelyn. I cannot tell if I serve her or not, but I use her white magic, and she bids me to hear, feel, think."
"Ah, Hydaelyn," said Astidien. "Goddess of the earth. Though we serve the Twelve or others, yet all of us are bound to her, I think." He smiled and slapped Arden's shoulder. "You have worked hard this day, friend. Get some rest and recharge your aether. We will watch the patients for signs of improvement after this."
Arden went in search of Alphinaud, who had vanished from the waiting room. He found the boy in the mess hall with Cid, Wedge, and Biggs, all enjoying a hearty venison stew with more black bread. Arden collected his own bowl and joined them.
"Learn anything of import?" Alphinaud asked at once.
Arden related Joellaut's story, leaving nothing out. Afterward he dug into his supper with great appetite.
As he ate, Alphinaud turned to Cid, Biggs, and Wedge. "What direction do the main gates face? We used them today."
"Southwest," said Biggs. "The road comes down the mountain that way."
"That's what I thought," said the boy. "If there is an eastern gate, it could only open upon the chasm that sliced the land in that direction. Yet he said he saw a man by the lights of the city. If it was a blizzard, how could he see so far?"
"Perhaps the snow was dropping by then," said Arden. "The wind might continue for some time, but visibility might improve."
"Point," said Alphinaud. "But how could anyone arrive from that direction? There's no road. The chasm is impassable."
"Perhaps the fellow arrived in the dark and got turned around," said Wedge. "Heavens know I wandered all over that blasted mountain."
"Perhaps," said Alphinaud. "Arden, before it grows dark, you and I should take a look out the east gate."
Whitebrim Front did indeed have an eastern gate, though it was little used. A sentry hailed them as they passed through.
"Where do you think you're going? The road ends just past this point."
"Lord Drillemont bade us check for dragons," said Arden with a savage grin. "Have to keep the outsiders busy, you know."
The sentry rolled his eyes but waved them through. "Suit yourselves. There is a steep way down into the chasm, but it's slippery this time of day. Be back before dark or the wyverns will get you."
Alphinaud was undaunted by these warnings. He set off down the snowy road toward the chasm, and Arden hurried to keep up.
"You can see the city from here," the boy said, halting and pointing. "The story matches so far. But unless the Inquisitor arrived by flying chocobo, he could not have reached Whitebrim from this direction. The valley down there is too deep."
"Let's take a look at this chasm," said Arden.
A ravine with sheer, rocky sides split the land on the eastern side of Whitebrim. In warmer days it had held a river which roared and foamed its way down to the valley. Now the river was buried under layers of ice and snow, with only the occasional air hole letting the sound of the water through. Arden and Alphinaud reached the bottom with difficulty, for the path was just as slippery as promised.
"I don't know what we intend to find down here," said Alphinaud, gazing up the cliffs. "All traces of activity were wiped out months ago."
"Hold on and I'll check the aether," said Arden, kneeling. He plunged his gloved hands into the snow and drew upon water and earth. He closed his eyes and sank into meditation, letting the energies sketch his surroundings in glimmers of magic.
The first thing he felt was the river beneath three fulms of ice, still flowing deep and strong. The next thing he felt was the rock of the mountains around them: the ravine walls, the riverbed, the foundations of the keep overhead. He sensed the life in the keep, too, and it gladdened his heart. This land, for all its icy ruin, cherished its inhabitants that much more.
Then he felt the death. Death and spilled blood everywhere. Frozen blood, icy bodies, bones unable to decay in rows of graves. Dead dragons, their necks and wings twisted, hidden under the snow. The land held them close and kept their secrets, but should the snow ever thaw, the dreadful secrets under the snow would be revealed.
There was something dead nearby, in fact. A dragon, its frozen flesh picked from its bones by scavengers. A man lay beside it under a heap of snow suspiciously like a grave.
"Over here," said Arden, opening his eyes. He led the way down the ravine to the place where the dragon bones jutted from the snow. Alphinaud studied them. "Interesting, but hardly unusual."
Arden began digging away the mound of snow nearby. "Help me. A dead man lies here. I think, perhaps, he should not be here and he should not be dead."
Alphinaud assisted him. Within ten minutes they dug away the snow and revealed an Elezen there. He had been stripped of his clothing, but he still bore a tattoo on his neck marking him as an Inquisitor. The snow had preserved him remarkably well in all his pitiable helplessness. A stab wound in the neck indicated the cause of death.
Arden gazed down at him. "I believe we have found the real Inquisitor Guillaime."
"What do we do?" Alphinaud asked in a low voice. "We have no proof of the man's identity. They would have to send for someone to identify the body, and that might take weeks. Meanwhile, our imposter could slip away."
Arden considered. "We will have to go about this discreetly. Let's cover the poor fellow again. I believe I shall speak to Astidien again."
The head healer welcomed Arden into the infirmary. "Welcome my white mage friend! How may I help you?"
"I have a problem that must be handled with discretion," said Arden. "Might we enter your office?"
"Certainly." Astidien led him into a small stone room where a lamp burned on a desk littered with papers. He closed the door behind them. "There. Speak your mind, friend."
"While exploring the chasm east of Whitebrim Front, I came upon a body concealed in the snow," said Arden. "It appears to have been there for a number of months."
Astidien frowned. "A body? Did you examine it?"
"Yes," Arden replied. "A male Elezen stripped to the small clothes. The tattoo of an Inquisitor marks his neck."
"By the Fury," Astidien gasped. "But who might it be? We have not lost any Inquisitors in two years!"
"I know not," said Arden carefully. "But if the body is retrieved and identified, it might be found that another walks in his clothing, using his identification."
"A heretic among us," Astidien breathed. "No wonder you wished for discretion. I will give thought to how to proceed. Several Inquisitors pass through Whitebrim regularly, and it might be any of them. Guillaime is here now, and it shrivels my gut to think it is he. Speak of this to no one else, understand? Your life as well as mine is at stake."
"Rest assured, I will keep silent," Arden assured him. "However, I will cast about for any further evidence that might indicate the identity of the imposter. Keep your eyes open."
"I will." Astidien patted his shoulder. "Watch your back, friend. Healers see more than most, but they also offer easy targets. Many times I've seen a healer threatened because of the perceived weakness of their skill."
"If anyone threatens you, conjure a spike of stone straight through them," Arden said. "It has stood me in good stead more than once."
Astidien laughed a little, then scrutinized Arden's face. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"Completely," said Arden. "If you'll excuse me, I believe supper is being served in the mess hall."
"Dine well, my friend," said the healer. "I take my meals here with the other chirurgeons."
Arden left the infirmary and stepped out into the courtyard. As he did, he heard voices arguing nearby in an undertone, as if trying not to be overheard. The infirmary had a flight of stairs on the north side that led down to store rooms beneath the building. Someone was back there, or more than one. Arden cautiously crept toward the stairs and lurked behind the balustrade, his horns angled to catch the sound.
"I said you'll do it, and you'll do it, won't you?" growled a man's voice.
"I said I'll not do it one more time," said a woman's voice, shrill with anger. "Nay, take your hands off me!"
"You'll do as I command," snarled the man's voice. There was a scuffle then, a jingle of armor and panting for breath. Then the man's voice said, "That'll teach you, wench. You have your orders and you'll follow them."
A woman's half-stifled sob was the only response.
Boots crunched away through the snow. From his semi-hiding place, Arden watched as Inquisitor Guillaime strode away toward the keep's main tower. Arden's heart burned with rage at what he'd just overheard. As soon as the man disappeared indoors, Arden slipped down the steps and around the corner to the store room entrance.
A woman in a guard's uniform knelt in the snow there, head bowed. At Arden's footsteps, she looked up with a gasp, then hastened to her feet, straightening her tunic.
"Ma'am, are you hurt?" Arden asked. "I'm a healer."
"No, no, I'm fine," said the woman, giving his horns a cautious look. "You're one of those outsiders. What do you want with me?"
"I overheard that man abusing you," Arden said in a low voice. "Such things should not be tolerated, even from an Inquisitor."
"I … I failed him," the woman gasped, rubbing her arm as if in pain. "He had to be harsh."
"Sounded to me like you were rejecting unwanted advances," said Arden. "Say the word and I'll snap his neck for you."
"I couldn't do that," said the woman, but a smile touched her lips. "He was not making advances. He gave me an order that I disobeyed."
"What order would cause him to beat you himself?" Arden asked. "Shouldn't he leave your discipline to your commanding officer?"
"I …" The woman raised her eyes to Arden's glowing violet ones. "If you wish to know the truth," she whispered, "go to his rooms in the barracks. He has one of the officer's rooms in front. Here is a key. Under his bed is a small strongbox. If you wish to save me further trouble, take that box to Drillemont. But be warned that the Inquisitor would rather slit your throat than let you do anything of the kind."
Arden's heart lurched as he palmed the key and dropped it into a pocket. "My thanks, m'lady. As outsiders, perhaps we will only be seen as troublemakers and be thrown out."
"Not once you open the box," the woman whispered. "Go. Before he returns."
Arden left her and hurriedly crossed the courtyard to the barracks. It was the work of five minutes to make his way to the officers rooms, where he told a sentry he was to fetch a box for Inquisitor Guillaime at once. The sentry showed him the room, and when Arden confidently produced a key and unlocked it, the sentry shrugged and returned to his post.
The room was neat and tidy, military-style. The box was under the bed in the farthest corner, and Arden fetched it out with some difficulty. It was a small box, but rather heavy. He left the room, locking it behind him, and went to collect the Scions.
They were waiting for him in the mess hall. Arden told them in a rapid undertone what he had learned, and bade them accompany him to Lord Drillemont. As one, the Scions jumped up and followed him.
"Have you opened the box?" Alphinaud asked as they crossed the courtyard. "I would hate to present a box of small clothes as evidence."
"It's nailed shut," Arden pointed out. "If it is nothing, we shall simply be thrown out of Whitebrim Front and no harm done."
"Except to our pride and reputation," Alphinaud muttered.
Arden shrugged. He was taking a terrible risk for them all, yet he was willing to let the consequences fall upon his own shoulders. An innocent man lay dead, and a young woman was being repeatedly abused. These two things set a fire burning in his breast that made him reckless. He would see justice done here or die trying.
The sentry at the tower door admitted them doubtfully, and Arden mounted the stairs two at a time to Drillemont's upstairs office. Drillemont sat at his table with papers before him and a quill in one hand. Inquisitor Guillaime stood at his side. As Arden entered the room, the Inquisitor spied the box at once. He strode toward Arden with a terrible expression on his face. "What is the meaning of this? That box is my private property!" He snatched at it. But Arden was taller, and held it out of reach.
"Sir!" Arden called to Drillemont. "I bring to you evidence of foul play by this man. It is for your eyes only."
"That is mine!" shrieked Guillaime, clawing at Arden's tunic. "Give it back!"
Arden deftly twisted out of the man's grip and set the box before Drillemont. Then he grabbed Guillaime by both arms to keep him from snatching it up.
Drillemont jumped to his feet and stood aghast at this struggle. "Outsider! Release the Inquisitor at once!"
"Open the box first, please sir," Arden begged, struggling to hold Guillaime. With every passing second the man became harder to restrain. "I shall not harm him, but I have uncovered evidence–"
"Lies! Auri lies!" shrieked Guillaime. "You cannot trust a man with horns and scales! Their whole race is in league with dragons!"
"Racism, now," said Alphinaud's calm voice from behind them. "For shame, Inquisitor. If you have nothing to hide, then let us see the box's contents."
Guillaime turned to snarl at the boy. Seizing the moment, Lord Drillemont pulled out a dagger, slid it into the gap under the box's lid, and levered upward. The nails slid out of the wood smoothly, as if the box had been opened many times. Drillemont threw open the lid, then recoiled in horror. "Fury preserve us!"
The box was filled to the brim with draconic rosaries. Piles upon piles of beaded necklaces and bracelets, each equipped with a dragon tooth. Arden gasped at the sight, himself.
"Inquisitor?" Drillemont asked. "Explain yourself."
Guillaime straightened and composed himself, and Arden let him go. "Confiscated from heretics, my lord."
"I think not," said Arden. Several things became clear in his mind at once. "He has been forcing one of the lady guards to plant those in shipments of goods that come through Whitebrim. The heretics he has been catching were innocent men and women that he intentionally framed."
"Such lies," snorted Guillaime, who despite his apparent composure, had begun to sweat. "Where is your proof?"
"Summon the lady guard at the infirmary storehouse and seek her testimony," said Arden. "Also, a man lies dead under snow in the east chasm. A man with an inquisitor's tattoo upon his neck. At a guess, I would say it's the real Inquisitor Guillaime."
Drillemont turned to the Inquisitor, open-mouthed. "Be these things true?"
Guillaime seemed to be doing some quick thinking. His gaze rested on that open box of rosaries in all their damning glory. Slowly his eyes turned to Arden with a maddened redness.
"Aye," he said slowly, reaching into his tunic. "It all be true. I am a servant of Dravania in Inquisitor's guise. I have destroyed many of our staunchest enemies. And now I will destroy every last man of you, starting with this Auri thorn in my side." He whipped a brass bottle out from beneath his clothing, uncorked it, and raised it to his lips.
"Stop him!" Drillemont exclaimed, drawing his sword. "It is dragon's blood!"
But it was too late. The false Inquisitor gulped the bottle's contents and at once doubled up, as if it hurt him. His body began to grow and change before their eyes, gray hide and scales emerging where once there had been flesh. The limbs elongated, fingernails became claws. The forearms became tiny, undeveloped wings. The head expanded into a dragon aevis, something of the man's face preserved about the eyes and jaws. He rose to his full height, his head brushing the ceiling, and seemed to fill the whole room.
"Guards! Guards! To me!" cried Drillemont.
But the aevis had eyes only for Arden. "You die first!" it shrieked in a dragon's roar, and sprang upon him.
The crash of the heavy armored body drove Arden to the floor, where the jaws drove for his throat. But Arden was strong from weeks of training under the Twin Adders. He grabbed the open jaws and began forcing them apart. The aevis screamed and shook its head, clawing at him with its tiny wings, but Arden hung on. His own face locked in a grim smile, he exerted all his strength against his enemy, the monster who had hunted innocents and abused women. He forced the jaws wider, and still wider, until the jaw cracked sharply. The aevis screamed and leaped away, slinging its ruined head about, its broken jaw flapping. Arden leaped to his feet and drew his short sword. He ran up to the aevis, grabbed its throat with one hand, and plunged his sword into its chest with the other.
Like the monsters he had fought at Camp Dragonhead, this one was hard to kill. Despite taking a blade to the heart, this only seemed to fan its rage to greater heights. Again it flung itself upon Arden, clawing with its hind legs, seeking to disembowel him. Arden caught one hind leg and both hands and twisted, throwing the monster to the floor. Then he flung himself on the beast, holding its neck down with a boot while he stabbed it in the throat over and over. Around him, he was dimly aware of other men and other flashing swords, but he was conscious only of the battle between himself and the heretic. This was personal, and he would defeat this monster himself.
His final blow stabbed through the monster's neck and into the floor. The aevis gave a final screech and lay still, its body shuddering in its death throes. Only then did Arden look around. The room was in shambles. Drillemont's table had been upended and flung against the wall. Papers and spilled ink mingled with dragon's blood on the floor. A number of guards and Drillemont stood around the dead dragon with swords drawn. Everyone had blood on their weapons, but none more than Arden. His hands and clothes were drenched, his sword red to the hilt.
"Fight dragons often?" Drillemont inquired.
Arden shrugged and wiped his sword on the dragon's flank. "This is only my second time."
"He broke its jaws, sir," said a guard in awe. "With his bare hands."
"No different from fighting a bear that wanted my sheep," said Arden. "I apologize for the mess, sir. I had no idea the bastard would transform right here."
"He proved his own guilt," said Drillemont. "I will investigate your claims about the real Inquisitor's death. It could be that others were involved in this conspiracy. Go to the barracks and clean up, man. One should not let dragon blood dry upon the skin."
"Might we be allowed to seek our airship in the Stone Vigil?" Arden asked.
Drillemont smiled for the first time. "A man who fights a dragon aevis hand to hand and wins is not to be trifled with. I'll arrange an expedition tomorrow."