He fits for fate, and first destroys their mind
-- John Dryden
This talk of Audmathus, of lanterns and Kerrak and a Council fallen into disrepair, had been a good enough excuse for Ariane to take herself to the 'Dagger once more. Or perhaps the want for some fresh air had been excuse enough to investigate that talk, or perhaps something else entirely; by the time she was within sight of the tavern, the swordswoman had completely forgotten her original intent. It was a comfortable coccoon that enveloped her, warm and insulated against more than just the cold night air.
Enough whiskey will do that to a body, of course. That's the whole point of drinking it.
It was with little real volition that she'd sought out Kerrak within, and a sickness in her gut to go with it (here was the barcounter behind which she'd once served. here were the stairs she'd once patched, and didn't she shatter that table long ago with her ridiculous, oversized hammer of a weapon?). The tavern's floorboards were steeped in her sister's memories, as well as her blood, and she'd have fled them both, had an aquaintance not accosted her before she had the chance. Like D'Rael, Michael Renne had tended to her injuries long ago; like D'Rael, he was worth heeding, simply by virtue of being a fine surgeon. She'd sat where he directed. She'd listened to his urgent news, and soon came to wish that she hadn't.
Like the great many other wishes she would leave unspoken during the coming night, this did not come to pass.
An hour's nightmare ride through the chill dark had brought them, panting and sweated, to the hut that Renne had described. Inside, it was clear that the doctor had spoken no lie (and oh, how she'd hoped): a lone candle flickered by a windowsill, the scent of incense filled the room, and the Governor's corpse lay rotting in its center. That his wounds were... extensive... went without saying (Renne had sense enough to remain silent during her examination), but she'd laid hands upon them all the same. Had traced the edge of gutted eyesockets; had sampled the texture of bloodsoaked hair; had explored the buckled bone beneath his face. Or what remained of it. And even the words scrawled vivid across his chest, as brutal as a missive from a lover spurned; they were the worst of it, the very worst, but still her touch had traced those contours as if she were blind --
You should have believed
It was quite possible that the doctor had mistaken her silence for docility; he gave enough directives that it seemed so. See to his burial, Renne had suggested. And I don't want to bury you too, and Heal, and I'm so sorry, which wasn't a command at all, but sat with her as if it were one all the same. His embrace had been a cage, his words an intolerable weight upon her shoulders, and eventually she'd fled both, retreating through the cold night to one of the taverns where she'd lately kept a room.
That was where sunrise had finally found the woman: draped across her third-floor windowsill, with a knee bent to her chest and a bottle sat by her hip. The dawn's warmth had begun to thaw the chill from her features, and she'd raised her face to its light as if it were a blessing -- or curse enough to sear the sight from her eyes. They'd seen too much, this last night. Now and again, she'd climbed to her feet to stand in that tall windowframe, balanced reckless on her toes, hanging forward by her fingers until it seemed that she was already falling --
On a tabletop in the room proper, a sheet of parchment lay, weighted down against the winter winds, and fluttering at its edges. Some hours later, it would be collected by one of the tavern's sweeps, and delivered to its rightful home at the Meetinghouse. Unsealed, it reads very simply:
Councilor Keruk,
Your Governor lies dead. Michael Wren will lead you to his korps. It needs beriel.
Ariane Emory.
