Page 12 of Dark Bringer (Lord of Everfell #1)

Cathrynne

T he townhouse Lord Morningstar was renting looked even nicer than a hotel, not that Cathrynne had ever stayed in one. He kept making remarks about how tasteless the décor was, but if he had to spend a week in the cypher barracks, he might not be so picky.

As promised, their luggage had been left in the foyer. Brass lanterns hung from chains, and two curved staircases swept upward to the second floor.

“You’ll need to wait here while we check the house,” Cathrynne said.

Morningstar sighed. “Is that necessary?”

“Someone tried to kill you last night,” she reminded him. “So yes, it is.”

He waited with Yarl while she and Mercy conducted a thorough search.

The first floor had a cavernous kitchen with acres of gleaming stone countertops, a formal dining room, a paneled library that also served as a study, two closet-like rooms for the maids, and a glass-walled conservatory overlooking the rear gardens.

The next two floors held a total of seven bedrooms, each furnished in the style of a different province.

Cathrynne liked the Iskatar Room best. There were real palm trees in pots on the terrace and a wraparound mural depicting the month-long games staged by that fiercely competitive province, where the pursuit of glory was life’s highest calling.

The artist had done an incredible job. Cathrynne could have spent an hour studying the details, but the scene that caught her eye showed the archangel Raziel watching footraces from a red pavilion.

He had deep brown skin and wore a white dashiki with a square, gold-embroidered neckline.

Raziel’s neck and wrists were slender and elegant, the slight curve of his full lips intriguing. Was that a smile?

Cathrynne wondered if Morningstar had ever smiled in his life, which in turn made her wonder how old he was. He didn’t look more than thirty-five, but that meant nothing. Archangels aged at the pace of granite eroding beneath wind and rain.

She knelt to peer under the huge four-poster bed. No waiting assassins. Not even a speck of dust. But the guidebook on the side table looked interesting. Cathrynne leafed through it. Iskatar’s capital, Lagash, was apparently famous for cheese and salt.

“I’m claiming this one,” she said, checking the walk-in closet and pink marble bath.

“All yours,” Mercy replied from across the hall. “I want Mount Meru if Morningstar hasn’t taken it.”

It was Mercy’s dream to climb the Sundar Kush range. She was a decent mountaineer, but she said the Kush were the ultimate test. Dozens died there every year—just in the foothills.

The only other bedchamber that showed signs of habitation was the Kirith Room, which had obviously been claimed by Edvin Yarl since it smelled of his citrus hair pomade.

“I don’t think Morningstar has taken a bedchamber,” Cathrynne said when they’d finished searching the third floor. “Maybe he doesn’t sleep at all.” It wouldn’t surprise her.

“Right. That leaves the roof,” Mercy said.

They found the spiral stair leading up one flight and stepped out to a flat terrace with stone planters and a bench.

A waist-high brick wall enclosed the roof.

At the far side, purple and white wildflowers burst from a crack in the slate tiles.

They bloomed in thick profusion—but only in that one place.

“I bet that’s where he bled,” Mercy whispered. “Angel blood has so much ley, odd things happen when it’s spilled.”

Cathrynne walked to the edge, careful not to step on the flowers, and leaned over the wall. It was a long drop down to the street below. Enough to kill a human and probably a witch. Even for Morningstar, it must have been agony.

“Here’s a question,” she said. “Why didn’t they finish him off? There he is, lying broken in the street, no one about. You’d never get a better chance.”

“Keep your voice down,” Mercy hissed. “He might hear you.”

She glanced at the stairwell. “All the way up here?”

“Yes! Angels have very acute senses.” Her face said , And you can’t afford to offend him again.

“Right.” Cathrynne mouthed an apology. “All clear!” she announced loudly.

Mercy sidled closer. “I agree,” she whispered. “Maybe the attacker was interrupted.”

“Maybe.” Cathrynne still thought it strange that someone ruthless enough to hoist Casolaba onto a spire and leave him there for the crows would balk at cutting Morningstar’s throat, or whatever it took to kill an archangel.

They flipped a coin to decide the watch.

Cathrynne lost, taking first shift. By the time they went downstairs, Morningstar had disregarded their order to stay put and sequestered himself in the library.

Yarl told them to take any of the bedrooms they liked.

He bid them good night and retired, followed soon after by Mercy.

Cathrynne hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She rummaged through the kitchen, which was stocked with copper pans of every size and ingredients that all required cooking.

After twenty years of mess hall chow and street food, recipes remained a mystery.

Finally, she discovered a bag of chips in the pantry.

She padded down the hall and knocked on the library door.

“Enter,” came Morningstar’s clipped voice.

He sat at another desk—apparently, his favorite place in the world—reading through stacks of documents under a pool of lamplight. “What is it, Rowan?”

“I can’t leave you alone,” she said.

“I’ll be fine,” he replied testily.

She glanced at the windows facing the street. “Anyone might come through those. We can’t take the risk.”

After a long pause, he sighed in defeat and gestured to an armchair. She sat down and tore open the paper bag. He looked up with a pained expression as she popped a chip into her mouth. Cathrynne wished she had eaten them in the kitchen first, but it was too late now.

“I won’t get crumbs on the carpet,” she mumbled, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

His gaze flicked to her feet. “You already have, but I will not begrudge you sustenance.”

She smiled. “That’s kind of you.”

He examined her suspiciously, then returned to his papers.

Cathrynne ate the chips as quietly as possible. He did not look up again, though a muscle ticked in his jaw. When she crumpled the bag, it sounded like a building collapsing. She tossed it at the wastebasket next to the desk, missed, and was forced to go over and retrieve it.

“I hope you enjoyed your meal,” Morningstar muttered venomously.

“I did, thank you.”

He gave a curt nod. She returned to her chair and settled back to watch him work. Were all archangels so self-important? It seemed like a lonely existence, though he probably liked it that way.

After a while, he looked up again. “I plan to be here all night. It will be quite tedious to have you sitting there watching me the whole time.” He glanced at the floor-to-ceiling shelves. “Perhaps you’d care to read a book?”

“I don’t read books.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” he murmured, returning to his document.

“Why not?” She had no idea what he thought of her and was genuinely curious.

He set down his pen. “I only mean that you seem like more of a . . .physical type.”

She thought of Mercy. “You mean nature hiking?”

He shrugged a wing, exasperated.

“Oh, I don’t climb mountains,” she said. “I just break legs.”

He seemed unsure if she was joking. When he buried his nose in the papers again, Cathrynne allowed herself a tiny smile.

* * *

Mercy relieved her at three a.m. Both women were cranky and tired when dawn broke and Yarl informed them that they were heading back to the Red House.

The three-hour time difference with Arioch made it feel like the middle of the night.

Naturally, Morningstar looked as fresh as if he’d slept on the clouds wreathing Mount Meru.

As before, he sat at the dead man’s desk—the Magistrate’s Throne, Cathrynne thought of it—while Yarl recorded witness testimonies in a big book.

A parade of delegates and staffers shuffled in throughout the morning.

None admitted to knowing anything about Casolaba’s death. None seemed grieved by it.

“Did you notice any unusual visitors in the days before the murder?” Morningstar asked a round-faced clerk with who worked in an office a few doors down.

“No, my lord.” The clerk’s eyes darted to the smirking portrait of Casolaba and then to the window, as if seeking escape.

Lying, like the rest of them.

“And what was your personal opinion of the consul?” Morningstar pressed with an almost evil glint in his eye.

“He was always friendly. An effective leader,” the clerk replied primly.

Lies, lies, and more lies.

Cathrynne’s knees were stiff from standing.

Her eyelids drooped from boredom. Just as she considered how much trouble she’d be in if she dozed off, the door burst open and Levi Bottas rushed in, his cheeks pink and hair poking out in all directions.

“Sir, you must come down to the Assembly chamber.”

Morningstar’s jaw tightened at the interruption. “Why?”

“Just come!” Bottas beckoned urgently.

He rose with a flinty expression. Cathrynne trailed his billowing black robes down the stairs, Mercy and Yarl behind her.

The Assembly occupied a large oval room with tiered seating above the main floor.

A gallery circled the chamber where spectators could observe the proceedings.

Bottas led them past a bunch of scribblers with pens and notepads who eyed Gavriel appraisingly.

On the floor below, Luzia Bras stood at the speaker’s podium, hands gripping either side. She seemed to be enjoying herself. “I won’t compare Primo Roloa to a whore,” she declared, “since that would be an insult to the hard-working prostitutes of this city?—”

Shouts erupted from the benches of the Freedom League.

Luzia raised her powerful voice above the din, “—who are more honest, sincere, and forthright than the acting consul, and certainly give better bang for your copper than he ever could!”