36. Chapter Thirty-Six

So far, this evening had been a total wash.

I had successfully resisted the urge to pester Arken immediately after I got off work. I had already dragged the poor woman out with me and my lieutenants almost every evening this week, traipsing about the town. And though she had given me no indication of her boredom, I couldn’t bring myself to monopolize all of her free time. Only most of it.

I was a selfish bastard, after all—but she had her entry exams tomorrow. I could behave. But I couldn’t help but smile to myself as I kicked my boots up, resting my legs on the desk.

For the past several weeks, at her request, I had been running Arken through daily strength training drills and exercises intended to improve her endurance for Physical Arcana. If she wanted to test into such a high-level course, the scholars were going to test both her arcane aptitude and her physical strength.

At first, the Little Conduit fucking hated me for holding her to it. The first time I had her run laps, I think she was about ready to strangle me. Every time I said another one, those golden-brown eyes had been brimming with adorable animosity. But Arken Asher was nothing if not stubborn as Hel. This morning, she could almost keep up with my pace as we ran around the Student’s Quarter. Almost.

I had used the last several hours to catch up on tedium—missives I needed to read, reports to file, notes to review from various sources across the city. Even cities as grand as Sophrosyne had their seedy underbellies, and I had informants lurking in every dark corner. I had been a little too efficient though, and didn’t have much else to work on, leaving me restless.

It was right about now that I would be typically headed to a tavern, on the hunt for some pretty distraction. But, for whatever reason, that impulse felt less than savory.

For whatever reason.

I scoffed at my own thoughts. I knew damn well why those distractions weren’t appealing lately.

The last time I had a stranger in my bed, I spent the entire godsdamned night thinking about her instead. I probably should have been ashamed of that, if not a bit embarrassed—but I had gotten away with it, and therefore I was not. Still, I wasn’t exactly proud of the fact that I had taken some random, brown-haired woman to bed, just to treat her as a stand-in for the one I actually wanted to be balls deep inside.

Thank the gods that I had at least managed enough tact and self-control not to moan Arken’s name out loud while I fucked the other woman, fast and hard and aggressive—the same way that I regularly fucked my own fist thinking about the same damn thing. Arken in my bed. Arken on her knees. Arken screaming my name.

Platonic. So very platonic.

As lovely as such images were in my mind, I was grateful when a tap at my window distracted me from my inappropriate, borderline pathetic obsession.

I could barely make out the figure of the mail sprite from across the room. From this far away, it just looked like a small, swirling vortex of air, but the sprite took shape as I approached the window. It was a stoat, standing up on its hind legs, presenting me with a small scroll sealed in emerald green wax.

A message from Tessa Kallys, the Viscountess of Amaranthe. Now that was unexpected.

I had reached out to Tess a few weeks prior, after the disturbance with the Mirkovics at the Western Gates had drawn my suspicions. Regrettably, I had no sources of significance in Freyston, and so I had settled for the next best thing: Someone with intimate visibility from the neighboring lands. I knew from experience that there was no love lost between the Kallys family and the Mirkovics, so I had entrusted Tessa to keep an eye on that group from Freyston.

As I unraveled the scroll, it appeared that the seeds I planted had potentially started to bear fruit.

“Town hall meeting” at the Dogwood Inn, S.E. Freyston. All expected to attend. 11 PM.

— TK

I glanced at the clock. It was just about ten. I could make it to southeast Freyston in less than half an hour, but I didn’t want to go alone, so I summoned my sprite and scratched out two quick directives—a copy for each of my lieutenants.

Meet me at the stables. HQ. Immediately.

“I swear to the Source, you better have a good reason for this,” Hans groused as he strolled up to the stables.

I was preparing Muniin’s saddles, but paid his qualms no mind. I would be more concerned if Hans Deering arrived for a last minute mission without complaint, honestly.

“Why’s that, Deering?” Jeremiah inquired, rounding the corner from the other side of the stables. “Got something better to do?”

“Someone,” Hans muttered.

“My apologies, boys,” I replied, adjusting Muniin’s reins. “We’ve got a lead.”

“Lose the uniform jacket,” I directed, glancing over at Jeremiah. “I’ve got a few casual coats in my office, but be quick. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

Efficient as ever, Jer was gone and back again within three minutes. As we mounted up and made our way towards the Western Gates, heading for Freyston, I briefed them on the situation.

“There was something off about that party of protesters a few weeks back,” I began.

“The group who followed Mirkovic’s caravan?” Jeremiah asked.

“The very same, yes. Like you mentioned, it was unusual for a group of Pyrhhan citizens to be that disgruntled with their leadership. I mean, sure—Gidgeon and Levi can be pricks. Bristol and Gwen are mostly fine, if not a bit up their own asses. But when it comes to policy? Lord de Laurent keeps them in check.”

“We found no evidence of foul play or ulterior motives when we investigated, though,” Hans pointed out. “It was mostly farmhands. A few artisans, traders. And they’ve apparently been on their best behavior ever since. Has something changed?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out. According to one of my sources, all twelve of those Pyrhhans are expected to be in attendance for some sort of town hall meeting that’s taking place at the Dogwood Inn at the top of the hour.”

“What sort of town hall meeting takes place at eleven o’clock at night?” Jeremiah scoffed.

“Nothing sanctioned by the House of Embers, that’s for damn sure,” I replied.

The abrupt screech of a barn owl startled Muniin, interrupting her canter. I rubbed at her neck with soothing circles against her coarse coat, and we carried on.

“So what’s our strategy?” Hans asked.

“We’ll tie up the horses on the cusp of the woods,” I instructed. “Dogwood is less than a kilometer out from the trail, and we’ll draw less suspicion on foot. We’ll disperse ourselves throughout the room. Jer—I want you monitoring exits. Take note of whoever might be coming and going, and look out for any Pyrhhan guards.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hans, I want you focused on the speaker and the behavior of the crowd. Do what you do best.”

Hans nodded. My second in command was a master at interpreting coded language. I had yet to encounter a cipher the man couldn’t crack within a day, whether it was in Common, Aetheric, Irrosi—you name it.

“And you’ll be the ghost,” Jeremiah said, more a statement than a question.

“I’ll be the ghost,” I agreed.

This was where my Shadows offered a significant advantage in my line of work. For the most part, I could utilize my arcana to traverse through that tavern from the darkest corners, sight unseen. Observing those who think they’re not being watched. People reveal far too much about themselves when they expect that everyone’s attention is elsewhere.

Our horses were well-rested and fast, so we arrived at the edge of the forest with time to spare.

After dismounting, Jer and Hans made some subtle but meaningful adjustments to their clothing and hair. Jeremiah had even whipped out a small pot of concealer to cover up the slashing scar across his cheek and chin. Personally, I didn’t bother. My Shadows would shroud me soon enough, but my lieutenants were clever. This crowd had seen the three of us before in an authoritative state, so obscuring noteworthy features was necessary if we wanted to successfully infiltrate whatever this “town hall meeting” truly was.

We made it to the Dogwood Inn on foot just as the clock tower in the town square struck eleven. Quiet murmurs began to disperse through a growing crowd of men and women as the bells rang out, and a throng of thirty-something Pyrhhans made their way into an otherwise empty first floor.

While folks situated themselves at various tables and benches, I fell into the Shadows and began collecting information.

“Things in Vindyrst have gotten worse,” a decrepit looking farmhand whispered to the woman at his side. “There’s been talk of banding together. Collectively.”

Interesting.

“They call themselves the Bloodborne,” another hushed whisperer confessed. This time it came from a young woman who was deeply tanned with hair like straw—messy and wild.

Her calloused hands and the dirt beneath her fingernails suggested that she, too, was a farm worker. All of that tracked, of course. Freyston and Amaranthe were largely agricultural lands. But what interest did Pyrhhan farmers have in the happenings of Vindyrst, of all places? And who the fuck were the Bloodborne?

I was hoping for answers when a man rose from his seat, his gait confident as he strode towards the center of the room. All eyes in the room followed him now, so he had to be a leader of sorts. As he made his way up to the front, I made a mental note of all of his features.

Approximately 6‘3. Pale. Brown hair, mid-length, wavy. Brown eyes, thick brows. Barrel-chested. Casual attire, clothing well-worn, patches on the elbows of his long-sleeved flannel shirt. Strong posture. Mid thirties.

“My brothers and sisters!” the man called out, extending his arms out in welcome. “I thank you for your time. It has been too long since we last met.”

The crowd murmured quietly, returning the greeting, and various heads bobbed with familiarity as their attention remained affixed to this speaker.

“Just as it has been too long since we have had appropriate representation within the House of Embers!”

Members of the crowd stomped their feet in clear approval of the message, several men raising flagons of ale towards the speaker in acknowledgement.

“We are tired, are we not? Of tilling soil we don’t own? Of harvesting crops we don’t eat? Of paying taxes to the godsdamned Mirkovics while our resources dwindle, our lacking infrastructure left in disrepair?”

I raised a brow while the room nodded out their affirmations. I spent plenty of time in Pyrhhas as of late. I had been all across Freyston in the last several months for various investigations. Their roads were well kept, their people were well fed…

So what was this really about?

“More importantly, we are tired of our lives and welfare being dictated by a privileged handful of these simpering servants of the gods. These filthy fucking Conduits.”

The speaker spat out that last word as if it were a slur, and the energy in the room shifted. The people looked bitter, and angry. Worn-down. Exhausted. And there it was.

This was a room full of non-Resonants.

Certain things began to fall into place.

My thoughts immediately returned to the debrief with High General Demitrovic several weeks prior. We had yet to firmly identify the source of this growing movement of discontent, had no leads that had turned up direct evidence that linked these disappearance cases to any one group of disgruntled Atlassians. Was this…?

“The magick in their bastard blood is fading!” the speaker continued. “Fewer and fewer mortals are born with Resonance with every passing generation. I know it. They know it. We all know it! Certain elements are so rare now that they could very well cease to exist within our lifetime. And maybe that’s for the best.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Blood is thicker than Aether.

The child found in Ithreac, mutilated and strung up in the trees. Our missing students. Fucking Amir. These things were connected, they had to be. But how? How were these networks communicating between the territories, fostering the same fear and loathing, without leaving a single trace for any of our respective forces to find?

“Hear, hear!” A voice called out from the back of the room.

“We all know damn well that the Atlassian elite serve themselves and their coffers, first and foremost. They send their spawn to Sophrosyne to study under those blasted Aetherborne, to continue this cycle of oppression built by their design, to preserve hierarchy based on one thing and one thing alone: Arcana.”

There was something off about the man as his energy intensified, growing red in the face as he continued his emphatic speech. It was hard to get a read on whether he was speaking genuinely, or putting on a show. His tells were in conflict, obscuring his intent. Did he even believe in the sharp words he was spewing off? Or was this a man acting in bad faith, pushing his own agenda?

“We are the mortal majority! What good does their paltry magick even serve the rest of us? Why should representatives of less than five percent of the population speak on our behalf? Why should access to the elements mean that these privileged pricks should own our land, dictate our laws? Why were they even chosen to lead us in the first place?”

He made fair points in that regard, I had to admit, but the more this man spoke, the less I trusted the authenticity of his intentions.

“It’s not right!” An older woman seated close to the speaker cried out. “Damn these aetherwhores. Damn them to the Abyss!”

“Indeed,” the speaker acknowledged. “Damn them all. And my friends, we could remain passive. We could wait for these bloodlines to die, for Resonance to fade out from history, making equals of us all. It’s bound to happen. But only time will tell if that takes decades, or centuries. And so I ask this of you all: Why wait?”

Despite my growing discomfort, I continued to scan the room, moving about unseen to get a closer look at certain people’s reactions. Expressions were grim as the man carried on, counting off various grievances against the Mirkovic family in particular. I could tell that at least half of the crowd was entirely on board with the message of this speaker, but others seemed more skeptical. They had yet to be radicalized.

That told me that whatever this movement was, it was relatively new.

But so were the disappearances.

My ears pricked up when the sighing croon of a mourning dove traveled through the air, setting me on high alert. That cadence was familiar—and little gray bird, it was not. There were no doves in the awnings of this building. That was a signal from Jeremiah. The Pyrhhan guards were coming.

At the signal, Hans made a quiet exit. Jeremiah followed suit shortly after, neither of my men drawing any attention to themselves as they crept out. I quickly followed, despite the urge to hang back and observe how this crowd might react to an interruption from local law enforcement. It was more important that my men and I weren’t implicated here. We were technically outside of our jurisdiction, and the Lord of Embers would not stand for our interference… particularly not if I was involved.

Still, we had plenty of information to work with, troubling as it may be—with several leads to follow. This was a successful mission, and I made note to thank Tessa Kallys for the tip.

Once I was about half a kilometer out, I glanced back towards the Dogwood Inn and saw several of the Pyrhhan guardsmen ushering the crowd out. Their body language was stern, yet polite… Friendly, even. They were enforcing curfew, not stomping out the flickering embers of a resistance movement.

The Pyrhhan Guard had no idea what had been taking place in their own godsdamned backyard.

Useless bastards.

“So the speaker was definitely from Vindyrst,” Hans began once the three of us met up, returning to our horses. “And he’s clearly got some ulterior motives for riling up commoners in Pyrhhas.”

“Wait. Vindyrstian? Are you certain?” I asked.

Not that I doubted my lieutenant’s observations, but I was fairly skilled at picking up on regional accents... and the speaker had none to speak of.

“At least ninety percent sure. His belt buckle was Vindyrst steel—low grade leatherwork, I recognized it as part of a uniform set for the miners up in Squaller’s Peak. And when he counted off those grievances, he started with his thumb. Pyrhhans start counting on their forefingers.”

Two excellent observations. I felt a small swell of pride, the way I always did whenever the guards of my cadre reminded me why I had chosen them.

“That all tracks, then,” I replied. “Some of the attendees were murmuring about tensions in Vindyrst, specifically. The speaker could have been the source.”

“Bran Halsigg,” Jeremiah added. “That’s the name of the speaker, according to one of the guests. But he wasn’t part of the group of protestors we spoke to. I didn’t recognize his face.”

Nor had I—and he was a fairly recognizable fellow, what with the strong brows and the broken nose, not to mention the commanding presence. We would have noticed him before.

“Me neither,” Hans agreed. “He definitely wasn’t in the throng that harassed the Mirkovics.”

“We’ll need eyes on him, then,” I murmured, just loud enough to be heard over the stomps of our horses. “Run a background check through both our Archives, and the Pyrhhan Census. I want him followed, starting tomorrow.”

“Do you think this could be related to the disappearances?” Jeremiah asked.

It seemed damn near undeniable at this point. The motive was clearly there—escalating resentment towards Resonance, specifically towards Conduits, and the politically elite, which were often one and the same in Atlas.

But only one Pyrhhan citizen had been abducted, as far as I was aware. Imogen Gillespie—a sixteen year old Fire Conduit, and an active attendee of the Studium—taken from her home during a break between academic quarters. And she came from a common family. The Gillespies were well off, if I remembered correctly, and their family was well-connected. But they weren’t official members in the court of the House of Embers.

The Jerricks boy had been last seen in Pyrhhas, but he wasn’t Pyrhhan. He was from Vindyrst.

If these people had a bone to pick with the House of Embers, there were other young Conduits that made more sense as potential targets.

“I think so, but certain things aren’t adding up here. We’re missing something, still. We’ll need to debrief with Hanjae in the morning, regardless. Their vitriol towards the Aetherborne is concerning. And if this escalates, our student body could be at risk when they travel.”

Jeremiah and Hans both nodded gravely.

After an exchange of the remaining details, the rest of the ride home was silent as we chewed on the implications of what we’d just witnessed.

By the time I made it back home for the night, it was well past two in the morning. That didn’t do much to quell my hopes that a small, celestial fox might be waiting at my door, but alas. My front porch step was empty, and I was far too tired to be bothered to find a less satisfying distraction.

I found release by my own hand several times over at the thought of pale, freckled skin exposed, golden eyes gone wide and wild, of smudged kohl and tear tracks. Once I had spent myself to total exhaustion, silencing those racing thoughts, I let the oblivion of sleep take me for the night.