Page 13 of Dark Bringer (Lord of Everfell #1)

The scribblers in the gallery burst into laughter, as did the opposition benches. Primo Roloa merely shook his head, an indulgent, slightly contemptuous smile on his face.

“The Miners’ Union demands a snap election to choose a new consul,” Luzia continued, slamming a palm against the podium. “The people deserve better than a puppet whose strings are pulled by the mining conglomerates!”

More shouts, both in support and protest.

“And while I have the floor,” Luzia’s voice hardened, “I demand an investigation into the death of a boy from my district found floating in the river yesterday with a burn mark on his back from lithomancy!”

The chamber fell silent before exploding into chaos. A woman in silver robes—the non-voting witch representative—jumped to her feet. “That accusation is offensive and baseless,” she cried. “There is no evidence whatsoever that a witch was involved!”

Delegates shouted at each other from every corner. Roloa banged a gavel, demanding order with little success. It was getting ugly. Cathrynne shared a look with Mercy. They were about to usher Morningstar from the chamber when Luzia Bras looked up at the gallery.

“Lord Morningstar!” she called. “Will you investigate this boy’s death? Or do you only care about crimes against the powerful?”

He froze, then stepped forward, the center of attention. “I have no mandate to do so,” he said stiffly, his voice carrying through the chamber. “My commission extends only to the death of Consul Barsal Casolaba.”

The muttering grew angrier. “Justice! Justice!” someone shouted from the Miners’ Union benches. Others took up the cry.

Cathrynne scanned the gallery, aware of how exposed they were. Too many entrances, too many people. “We must go,” she murmured. “Now.”

For once, he didn’t argue. They left the gallery with shouts still ringing behind. Once they were in the corridor, Morningstar rounded on Levi Bottas. His face was a livid white. Cathrynne had never seen him so angry. “You set me up,” he growled.

Bottas quailed. “I had no idea what she planned, I swear! Luzia Bras just told me to bring you. She said she had evidence related to the murder and intended to present it before the Assembly.”

Morningstar briefly closed his eyes. Then he gave a mirthless laugh. “I’ve been outfoxed. And you, Bottas, were her cat’s paw. Do you know anything about this dead boy?”

He hung his head. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

Morningstar spun on his heel and strode from the building, pausing on the marble steps. The setting sun caught his dark wings, picking out flecks of green and blue like the plumage of a grackle.

“Shall I call the coach, sir?” Yarl ventured.

“I wish to fly,” he growled, “but I cannot. At the least, we will walk. I need fresh air.”

Cathrynne felt sorry for him. How terrible to have such a gift and yet be grounded. They returned to the nearby townhouse in silence. Once there, Gavriel retreated to the library, shutting the door behind him. Yarl announced that he would make them all supper.

Mercy dropped onto a couch upholstered in sea-foam satin.

“By Minerva, what a mess. I’m not sure Bottas is as innocent as he pretends.

First, he has no clue about the hidden passage leading to the consul’s office.

Then he lures Morningstar into the Assembly chamber for a public flogging and claims it was all Luzia Bras’s idea. ”

“You think they’re in cahoots?”

“They could be. Bras has something to gain from the death. Now she can call a snap election. She might even become the next consul.” Mercy idly flicked the end of her whip. “But I can’t see why Levi Bottas would help her.”

“Sex, money, power,” Cathrynne said. “Take your pick.”

“Maybe it’s all three,” Mercy speculated.

“Maybe Bottas likes older women. She said she kicked her husband out. She seduces him, then pays him to get rid of Casolaba and promises him a position in the new government. Levi Bottas was perfectly placed to get close to Casolaba. The consul would never have seen it coming.”

“That makes sense,” Cathrynne said, “except that his eyes were burned out and I can’t see Bottas doing that for no conceivable reason.

Plus, whoever attacked Morningstar used illusion.

Neither Bottas nor Bras are witches. If they had a smidgen of witch blood, we’d see it in their eyes.

A thin ring of silver or a grayish cast. Neither has it, I checked. ”

“Yeah. Too bad, it was a nice theory.” Mercy glanced at the library door and lowered her voice. “Toss a coin for who has to go in there?”

* * *

The delicious aroma of frying chickpeas and garlic filled the townhouse. Cathrynne found Yarl in the kitchen, managing several saucepans one-handed. A linen cloth draped over one shoulder.

“The table is set in the dining room,” he said, “but there’s still time to freshen up before supper.”

“Is that a polite way of saying I look dirty?” Cathrynne asked. She caught her reflection in a copper pot. Hair like a haystack, smudges under her eyes. “Never mind, don’t answer that.”

She went upstairs to change. When she returned, she was surprised to find both Mercy and Morningstar seated at the long dining table. He’d shed his magistrate’s robe and wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms.

“A proper meal seemed sensible after the day’s trials,” he said almost cheerfully, pouring wine for the table.

Cathrynne shot Mercy a look of amazement. Mercy replied with a modest shrug. A minute later, Yarl bustled in with a platter of rice with roasted vegetables and flat bread. Everyone murmured thanks and dug in.

“So,” Mercy said, “how did you two meet?”

Morningstar glanced at Yarl. “Shall we tell the tale?”

Yarl set down his napkin. “It’s hardly remarkable.”

“I disagree.” Morningstar swirled his wine. “I tried to hire Master Yarl decades ago when he was a graduate student at Faraday College. A professor friend recommended him. I had gone through several secretaries and was struggling to fill the position.”

“Six in one year, if I recall,” Yarl added.

The corner of Morningstar’s mouth twitched. “Yarl had just returned his dissertation, demanding points be taken off for a grammatical error that the teaching assistant had missed. My friend said he might actually be more irritating than I am.”

Cathrynne choked on her wine. Her eyes watered, but she managed to swallow. “Fine,” she croaked. “Go on.”

Morningstar was staring at her, which only made it worse. “However,” he continued, “Yarl refused my offer.”

“I had other interests,” Yarl explained. “My area of research was Sinn physiology and behavior. I was passionate about pursuing field work.”

Cathrynne went still. She glanced at Morningstar, but he had looked away.

“After graduation,” Yarl continued in an animated tone, “I spent years traveling to every corner of the empire, studying the various species in their natural habitats. My first published article was on the dwarf mosswing of Kirith. Beautiful creatures with scales like autumn leaves.”

“You’ve actually seen one?” asked Mercy, the avid hiker.

Yarl nodded. “In fact, I am proud to say that my research helped promote conservation efforts. They’re protected by law in Kirith now.”

“As they should be,” Mercy replied firmly. “Damned poachers nearly drove them to extinction, selling the claws and teeth for quack potions.”

“Indeed,” Yarl said gravely. “It was a terrible crime.” He brightened.

“I also studied the ringed skimmer found in marshlands. It mostly eats frogs. The spiny thresher and mottled shellback are both deepwater species. Those I only saw from afar. It wasn’t easy to convince a vessel to get close.

” He leaned forward. “The great northerns of Sundland are the second-biggest. They delve through ice and snow and build tunnels that go for miles.”

“Which are the biggest?” Mercy asked.

“The blue emperors, of course,” Morningstar put in. “Glorious beasts with scales of molten silver and tongues like sapphires. They’re the ones that burned Kota Gelangi to the ground.”

The boyish enthusiasm in Yarl’s eyes dimmed.

“I was one of the few to document their migration patterns. But then I got a bit too close. My own fault. I was young and terribly brave, and I’d gotten lucky for long enough that I was convinced of my own invulnerability.

” He touched his pinned sleeve. “It cost me my left arm from the elbow down.”

“Wow,” Mercy said. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Thank you, but I consider myself fortunate,” Yarl replied.

“Others who have met great northerns never lived to tell of it.” He paused to swallow a gulp of wine.

“After the accident, I could have taught at Faraday, or any other university of my choice. But I wanted a fresh start. So I wrote to Lord Morningstar, who hired me at once.”

“I was still in need of a secretary,” Gavriel said dryly. “And my professor friend was right. We were perfectly suited for each other.”

Yarl winked. “That professor changed careers herself. She is now the consul of Kirith.”

“Cyranthe Dagan?” Mercy exclaimed.

“The very same.”

She grinned. “Now, that is a good story!”

“I still keep up with the literature,” Yarl said wistfully.

“Much has been discovered in the last forty years, although we still know little about how they communicate or why they are so hostile. I had proposed that their aggression was a response to ours , but that provoked a firestorm of criticism.” He grinned. “No pun intended.”

Mercy began bombarding Yarl with questions. Did the aquatic Sinn breathe flames, and if so, could they do it underwater? Were the desert varieties truly growing immune to magic? Could a blue emperor derail a train if it wanted to?

Yarl answered each query with exhaustive detail. Morningstar added anecdotes of his own, having encountered various Sinn species during flights across the empire.

“Cathrynne? You look pale.”

Mercy’s voice broke through her reverie. She forced a smile. “Thank you, Yarl, for a delicious meal. I’m just tired. Still adjusting to the time difference, I guess. Leave some dishes in the sink, I’ll do them in the morning.” She turned to Mercy. “Can I have second watch?”

“Sure,” Mercy said gently.

Gavriel’s eyes met hers. Something in his level gaze suggested he understood her reticence.

“I regret that either of you must lose sleep over me,” he said. “So don’t worry about the dishes, I shall wash them myself.” He pushed his sleeves above his elbows and began collecting plates.

Cathrynne relaxed a bit at the sight of a haughty archangel bussing the dinner table.

Then she nodded to them all and went upstairs.

Once in her bedchamber, Cathrynne unwrapped the bandage around her left hand.

Three of her fingers were still eggplant purple, but the swelling and pain were minimal.

Her angel blood made her heal twice as fast as a witch—which was still faster than a human.

Cathrynne took a long, hot bath. Then she rewrapped her hand and lay down on the canopy bed, enjoying the ambience of the Iskatar Room.

She fancied that it smelled of warm cardamom and fragrant smoke from water pipes.

If she concentrated hard enough, she could hear the roar of the crowd as the winners knelt to receive laurel wreaths.

At least the artist hadn’t painted any blue emperors or great northerns darkening the skies.

No reminders of the monsters her womb would produce if she ever .

. . Well, it didn’t bear dwelling on. She and Mercy were different that way.

Cathrynne did not like to think about the Sinn, nor to talk about them.

The quiet murmur of conversation downstairs made her drowsy. It reminded her of the dinner parties her mother used to throw with lots of fabulous people, witch and human. Another thing Cathrynne rarely thought about anymore.

After a while, she drifted into disturbing dreams.

A boy floated in water, a wine-colored birthmark branding his pale, bloated cheek. His eyes opened and the river around him darkened with blood.

The scene shifted to a windy hilltop. A witch with a scarred hand held up a card. It bore an image of The Scythe, one of the thirty-six symbols she saw in her foretellings. A harbinger of violent change. A reaping.

“He comes,” the Morag said, her voice harsh and guttural. “God-killer. Dark-bringer.”

She stood in front of a kloster. Cathrynne saw dirty faces pressed to the windows. They were staring at her, lips moving, though she could not hear their voices.

Isbail Rosach laughed grimly. “It is the end of an age. The Summerlord will fall. And you, Cathrynne Rowan, are the Witch of Winter.” The Morag reached out, seizing Cathrynne’s jaw in a bruising grip. “He comes!”

She woke with silk sheets tangled around her legs and the taste of river water in her throat.

Trembling, Cathrynne whispered a prayer to Minerva.

Then she switched on all the lamps and waited for Mercy to fetch her for second watch.

What the dreams meant, she didn’t know. Only that sleep would not return this night.