Page 8 of Dark Bringer (Lord of Everfell #1)

Cathrynne

T he chapter house of the witches of Arioch sat in the heart of the city where the six colleges came together. It was enclosed within a high brick wall hidden by climbing roses. They smelled sweetest at dusk, just after a spring rain, and Cathrynne always associated them with coming home.

A statue of Minerva, the witch of Sion’s divine trinity, stood at the main entrance. Her marble gaze fixed upon all who entered, one arm raised to cast a spell. The statue was twelve centuries old—which is how long it had been since anyone last saw her.

The original chapter house had grown over the years into a sprawling compound that encompassed living quarters, meeting halls, smithies, the forcing ground, classrooms, the seers’ kloster, and other functions.

It was part of Arioch’s Old Quarter and had the same baroque limestone architecture as the surrounding colleges.

Cathrynne’s left hand throbbed fiercely, so she was glad the White Foxes drove straight to the infirmary. She got out, feeling a moment’s satisfaction at their looks of disgust when they saw the bloodstained backseat, and then Mercy was steering her through the doors.

A new, modern infirmary was being built on the east side. In the meantime, a makeshift clinic occupied the ground floor of a former gem storehouse. Inside, it smelled of alcohol and harsh cleaning products.

A witch named Angus Valinger was on duty. His mournful face softened when he saw them. “Ah, my two favorite repeat clients. Back so soon?”

“You’re not laying a hand on me,” Mercy warned. “I have enough scars already, thanks.”

He laughed. “Come now, Blackthorn. How many times have I stitched you up?”

“Too many. Just look at me. I’m a patchwork quilt.”

He arched a brow. “Are you saying it’s my fault that you keep getting in brawls?”

“No, but you could take a few sewing lessons. A blind butcher would do a better job?—”

“Enough banter,” Cathrynne interrupted, holding up her hand. “Can you fix this?”

“Ouch.” Angus led them to a surgery in the back and examined her, his touch gentle despite Mercy’s ribbing. “You’re lucky it’s a simple fracture.”

She ground her teeth as he manipulated the bones into alignment. Then he wrapped the fingers in a bandage, leaving the thumb free.

“Best I can do. Try not to use it for a few weeks,” Angus said.

“Not a problem.” Cathrynne flexed her right hand. “I can still give a hot ride with this one.”

“You should have seen the last one,” Mercy put in. “It was glorious. ”

Angus shook his head. They left the infirmary and went to report to Felicity Birch, a.k.a Sister Felony. It was the dinner hour and most cyphers and witches were eating in the dining halls—separate, of course.

“I think I might be in trouble,” Cathrynne confessed as they crossed into the cyphers’ territory. There was no sign or outward indication, but the buildings got a bit smaller and shabbier.

“Lump and Crump?” Mercy guessed.

Cathrynne nodded glumly. “Mostly Lump, though I don’t think Crump is happy with me either. I accused Claymond of setting us up.”

Mercy grimaced. “Bet that went over well.”

The sinking sun cast long shadows as they crossed the grounds.

As always, Cathrynne’s gaze drifted to the top of the tower that stood in a wooded area at the far edge of the grounds, distant from other buildings.

The seers’ kloster. Its windows were four-inch slits.

Once you went in, you never came out—not until they carried you out in a pine box.

Seers were both mad and dangerous, or so the witches claimed. They mostly talked gibberish, though an occasional genuine prophesy might emerge. Telling the difference was next to impossible.

Cathrynne had no idea why her own talent was different.

Why she saw symbols instead of the future.

Why she wasn’t stark raving yet, when most seers didn’t make it past their teens before they were found out.

But the end result would be the same. The witches would never let her roam loose if they knew what she could do.

Mercy followed her stare. “Courage Hazel just got sent up.”

Cathrynne didn’t know her well, but she recalled a quiet, kind girl who fed the pigeons that strutted around outside the mess hall. “How did it happen?”

She always asked this question. Someday, she might be the one getting sent up.

She was obsessed with the early signs. If she knew them all, maybe she could recognize them in herself and run away while she was still rational enough to plan ahead.

It was usually strange behavior, outbursts, a distancing from the real world as the visions took hold.

Courage had always struck her as normal, which was even more terrifying.

“I’m not sure,” Mercy said. “Poor woman. She’s only nineteen.”

They were quiet for a moment, regarding the kloster through the trees. Cathrynne blew out a breath. “Do you think I’ll get suspended?”

“It’s all thrice-damned nonsense,” Mercy replied, which wasn’t an answer.

They walked in silence. Cathrynne ruminated about being stuck in her cramped barracks for weeks on end.

She couldn’t escape the memories of being eleven years old and trapped in a coach with two White Foxes for weeks, taking the long way round from her childhood home to Kirith because the winter storms wouldn’t permit a sea passage.

Besides hunting down and arresting rogue witches, the White Foxes also sniffed out cypher children. They had chapters in every province, and were the most powerful and secretive order within the witches.

Cathrynne told herself everything would be okay. After all, they’d helped to catch some of the most-wanted witches in the empire. She’d nearly convinced herself of this until they reached Felicity Birch’s office, where George Claymond and Audrey Hayes were on their way out.

Audrey’s dark red lips parted in a vicious smile when she saw them.

“Enjoy your freedom,” she said. “It won’t last long.”

* * *

“Mum,” Cathrynne and Mercy said in unison.

They stood at attention while the head of the cyphers looked them over. No one knew her exact age, but she was old . Too old to bother with the dress code. Felicity Birch wore whatever she liked. Today, it was wide gray slacks and a blue cable-knit sweater.

“You were damned lucky,” Felicity said. “Those witches have killed three cyphers. Two at the port in Arioch, one in Bactra. Plus a customs official. He was probably dirty, but still. Good job.”

The wall behind her desk had a small plaque for every cypher who had died in the line of duty, which was quite a few.

“Thank you, mum.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Get in here and close the door.” Felicity lowered her voice. “The White Foxes are pushing hard for both of you to be punished, and this time they won’t back down.”

“We were just doing our job,” Mercy protested. “They ought to be thanking us.”

“And yet they’re not.” Felicity shook her head with exasperated fondness. “It was foolish to antagonize them, Cathrynne. You know they don’t like you. They never have. In their view, you were found too late. They prefer us to be molded from birth.”

Cathrynne was the only cypher without a grace name.

She’d refused to answer to “Serenity” when she first came to the chapter house at age eleven.

After a year of punishments failed to wear her down, Felicity had finally conceded, allowing her to keep her given name as long as she changed her surname to Rowan.

“That’s hardly my fault,” Cathrynne muttered.

“No, but your lack of diplomacy, not to mention self-preservation, is a pain in the ass,” Felicity retorted. “However, I have an idea that will buy us time for things to cool down.” She braced her hands on the desk. “Pack your bags. I’m sending you both on an assignment abroad.”

“Where are we going?” Cathrynne asked, bewildered and anxious. Mercy enjoyed travel and often spent her leave in exotic locales, but Cathrynne never left Arioch. Not in two decades. Both ships and carriages felt confining.

“Kota Gelangi,” Felicity replied.

Her heart sank further. The capital of Satu Jos was across the Parnassian Sea, a journey of two weeks. The direct route was faster, but most ships hugged the coast since the aquatic Sinn preferred deep water.

Cathrynne frowned. “Why?”

“Lord Morningstar needs protection,” Felicity said. “He’s investigating the death of Consul Barsal Casolaba. You do know about that?”

Cathrynne never read the gossip rags, but she vaguely recalled hearing about a consul’s death. Illness, wasn’t it? Or poison?

“You mean the one who got impaled,” Mercy said.

Impaled?

“Yes, that one,” Felicity agreed. “Morningstar just arrived in Kota yesterday and someone has already tried to kill him. Presumably the same person who murdered the consul.”

There was a shocked silence. Such a thing was unheard of. Archangels embodied the might of the empire. It was almost as insane as assaulting the god Valoriel himself.

“Who would dare?” Cathrynne wondered.

“Someone desperate to avoid capture, I imagine,” Felicity said. “He wasn’t hurt too badly. Apparently, he fell from a roof and broke a wing. Whoever did it got away. The assailant used illusion to get close. They masked themselves as his secretary, Edvin Yarl.”

“So it was a witch?” Mercy exclaimed.

“Careful now,” Felicity warned. “Such a spell requires skill but little strength. There are plenty of human weirdlings with enough witch blood to cast an illusory cantrip. Until we know for sure that a witch did it, it’s not a matter for the White Foxes.

He’s refused their aid anyway. He also refused local protection. Understandably, I suppose.”

“So you’re sending us ?” Cathrynne asked, still confounded at this turn of events.

“I wanted to send a dozen cyphers, but he’ll only accept two,” Felicity replied briskly. “And despite your recent blunder, you’re the best I have. Besides which, it will get you away from Lump and Crump. Don’t bother denying it, I know what you call them . . .”