Chapter 217

I paid for the hat and Iolite and I continued down the street.

“What did you think of the hatter?” I asked once we were out of earshot.

“I don't think he eats soup,” she said flatly.

I laughed. “That's... not what I meant.”

A sly smile tugged at her lips before she grew serious.

“I think things are bad here,” she said. “Some people don't like the queen. It's bad enough that speaking about her is bad for business.”

I nodded. “He did seem nervous when I mentioned her.”

“Not just him.” She glanced ahead as we walked. “Several people looked at you.”

“I didn't notice.”

“You were watching him.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “I was watching the street.”

She paused. “You probably also didn't notice the people watching the road.”

“I didn't.”

“Or the man following us.”

I resisted every instinct telling me to look over my shoulder. “I definitely didn't. What's he look like?”

She looked up at me, meeting my eyes with a gentle smile. “A little shorter than you. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Green jacket. Blue trousers.”

Her smile widened ever so slightly. “He just crossed the street. He's heading into the bakery we passed.”

I kept my gaze fixed on her. “And how,” I asked with a smile, “do you know that?”

We drifted toward the edge of the sidewalk so people could pass.

I rested my hands on her hips and gently guided her against the wall of a nearby building, turning our surveillance into what looked like two lovers stealing a quiet moment together.

She smiled up at me. “Because unlike some people...” she whispered, “...I don't need eyes to see.”

My brow furrowed.

“This is only a shell.” Her voice remained soft, intimate enough that anyone passing would assume she was whispering sweet nothings. “I wear it so I can move through the above stone.”

“There aren't any organs. I don't actually see through these eyes.” She leaned a little closer. “I see through the stone. All of it.”

I blinked. Slowly I lifted my left hand behind her, out of sight. I curled two fingers into my palm. “Really?” I asked. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three.” She never once broke eye contact.

“Huh.” I couldn't help smiling. “I've never actually thought about it.” My hand drifted back to her waist. “That's... incredibly useful.”

She rose onto her toes and kissed me softly. “Shall we continue?”

“Investigating or kissing?”

Her grin became positively mischievous.

“I'm happy with either.”

* * *

We wandered from shop to shop along the raised walkway, making small talk with the merchants.

Mentioning the queen produced the same reaction nearly every time.

Eyes darted toward neighboring stalls. Voices lowered. Conversations changed. It was as though we'd broken an unwritten rule simply by saying her name aloud.

As we walked, I began noticing the watchers Iolite had pointed out.

They lingered on street corners, watched the flow of traffic, listened to conversations without appearing to, and generally tried to look like they had somewhere else to be.

Several shot irritated glances at one another.

That caught my attention.

There wasn't just one group watching the streets. There were at least two.

Some carried concealed weapons - a knife tucked beneath a jacket, a wand hidden in an inner pocket. Others made no effort to hide them, wearing swords openly at their hips or carrying walking staffs that looked sturdy enough to crack a skull.

None of them threatened anyone outright. But more than a few watched passersby with hard, suspicious eyes.

I caught occasional glimpses of the man following us.

Just as Iolite had described. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Green jacket. Blue trousers. Young. Mid-twenties, if I had to guess. His Faith glowed yellow with hope and white with idealism.

Nothing about it struck me as unusual.

He looked like a kid convinced he was helping build a better future.

The problem was that I had no idea whose future he believed in. The Covenant's? The Crown's? Someone else's entirely?

An older man emerged from an inn and crossed in front of us, disappearing into the current of pedestrians.

He was one of dozens we'd passed that afternoon. One I almost ignored.

Almost.

He looked to be in his early sixties, with shoulder-length white hair in the Arvellian style and a clean-shaven face. Green eyes. About my height. Lean without looking frail, carrying himself with the easy confidence of someone who had spent a lifetime on his feet. He wore charcoal gray and deep brown.

Ordinary. Except… he had no Faith.

None.

As he passed, something stirred inside my own Faith. One of the silver threads connecting me to my family reached toward him.

Not far. Only an inch or two. It clung to him for the briefest instant before snapping back into place.

I stopped walking. I'd never seen that happen before.

I stared after the retreating thread. Then at the man. Then back again. Without thinking, I released Iolite's hand.

The silver thread still trembled faintly.

I followed it with my eyes.

Grams.

Before my brain caught up, my feet were already moving. “Hey!”

The man never looked back. Honestly, almost no one reacted beyond a few nearby pedestrians glancing over because someone had raised their voice.

“Sir!” I pushed through the crowd after him.

He stepped off the raised walkway and merged into the traffic on the Causeway.

“Seth?” Iolite called, concern creeping into her voice.

“Hey!” I shouted louder and stepped off the curb.

A wagon thundered toward me. Strong hands seized my arm and yanked me backward just as the horses barreled past.

I looked from Iolite back to the street.

The man was gone.

“Where did he go?” I looked both ways before weaving between wagons and horses, ignoring curses from a driver as I hurried into the road.

Nothing. He had vanished.

For a moment I considered taking to the air.

Iolite caught my sleeve again and gently guided me back onto the walkway. “What is it?” she asked.

I looked back toward the crowd where the man had disappeared.

“That man...” I frowned. “He had no Faith.”

I met her eyes. “And somehow...” I looked down at the silver thread still stretching toward home.

“...he's connected to Grams.”

* * *

“So what do you think it means?” Mirri asked, looking over at Grams.

We were sitting in Grams' living room over cups of tea. I'd just finished recounting what happened in Halemarch - the man without Faith and the strange way one of my silver threads had reached for him before snapping back.

Iolite was still in Halemarch, watching Lord Vey's estate and serving as my anchor for when I needed to step back. Elise remained in Spellmarch. Serah had gone to the Dragon Isles to deal with something she'd neglected to elaborate on. Ashlara was home with the children.

Grams scratched absently at her chin.

“No clue.” She shrugged. “Sounds too old to be a brother. Da disappeared when I was nine. I don't remember any humans living around Reedwatch besides him, but maybe he met someone during one of his trips.”

“No former lovers?” I asked.

She snorted.

“Nah. I was born in Reedwatch and I'll probably die in Reedwatch. Been to Northgate a few times, but no surprise love children.” She grinned over the rim of her cup. “I've had enough of the real thing.”

“What about Jaymes?” I asked. “The merchant. He's half-human. I didn't think goblin-human pairings were all that common.”

“That depends on where you live.” Grams leaned back in her chair. “Jaymes is from Redwind, down south. Plenty of us crossborn there. Not so many closer to the capital, from what I've heard.”

I nodded.

I'd only visited Redwind once, but it stood out in my memory. Humans and goblins lived side by side there in a way I'd rarely seen elsewhere in Arvellia.

The farther south you traveled, the fewer non-humans there seemed to be. The prejudice seemed to increase right alongside it.

Though that wasn't universally true. I hadn't noticed much of it in Highcoin, down in Caldris. And I couldn't recall seeing any non-humans in Morentis.

Maybe Arvellia was simply... a bit racist in parts.

“What about the lack of Faith?” Mirri asked.

I sighed and shook my head. “I don't know. The only people I've ever seen without Faith are people from Earth. They don't produce mana, so they don't generate Faith. But Annwn is saturated with mana.”

I frowned into my tea. “Could he be undead?”

The others looked at me.

“I've never actually looked at an undead's Faith.” I grimaced. “Usually I'm too busy making them dead again.”

Mirri smiled faintly. “Didn't Myrrakai tell you your gates were unique?” she asked. “That other people from Earth don't have them?”

“She implied as much.” I nodded. “But the Shepherd proved something important.”

I looked around the room. “When Earthlings are exposed to mana, they generate Faith. So even if this man couldn't produce his own mana...” I spread my hands. “...he should still have Faith.”

Silence settled over the room for a few moments.

“So… No former lovers. No childhood friends. We can't rule out a half-brother. Maybe he’s undead.” I rubbed my face. “I'll keep an eye out for him. If I see him again, I'll try to corner him and get some answers.”

“Maybe try asking nicely first,” Mirri said, smiling into her tea.

I looked at her with a crooked grin.

“You're such a square.”

* * *

I stepped back to Halemarch, arriving in the inn room to find Iolite standing at the window overlooking Lord Vey's estate and the causeway.

“What the hell is all that?”

The broad avenue below was packed with Arvellian soldiers.

Hundreds of them.

Beyond the city walls, camped along the lakeshore, waited hundreds more. Canvas tents stretched across the shoreline in neat rows while cookfires sent thin ribbons of smoke into the evening sky.

Over a thousand soldiers.

“They arrived about an hour ago,” Iolite said. “Just before dusk.” She pointed several blocks farther into the city. “Their leaders went that way.”

“Shit.” I turned toward the door. “Stay here. I need to find out what's happening.”

I stepped to the street she'd indicated, deliberately appearing beyond the soldiers instead of in the middle of them.

The causeway was partially blocked, though enough room remained for wagons and pedestrians to squeeze through. Traffic had slowed from the frantic pace I'd seen earlier to merely busy.

A few startled cries rose behind me as I appeared, but I kept walking.

About two hundred feet farther down the road, tucked along a side street, stood a large walled estate.

A dozen Crown soldiers guarded the entrance. They stood in disciplined pairs with shields stacked nearby and crossbows resting within easy reach.

The estate itself was understated.

An eight-foot wall of smooth white stone surrounded a three-story manor built from the same seamless material. Slate roofs, broad windows, tall chimneys, and a square observation tower overlooked the city beyond.

There was little ornamentation.

It wasn't grand - it was sturdy. Practical. Smaller than I'd expected for the governor of Halemarch.

I walked directly to the gate, paying little attention to the soldiers watching me.

“I'm Lord Seth Grimm, here on behalf of Archmagus Amberleigh. I need to speak with Governor Weavelyn and whoever is commanding these soldiers.”

One of the estate guards blinked. “...Lord Grimm?”

I nodded.

“The governor is in conference. I'll let him know you've arrived.” He exchanged a quick glance with the other guard before disappearing through the gate.

Behind me, the soldiers had begun whispering.

“...Grimm?”

“I thought he'd be taller.”

“He doesn't look like much.”

“Quiet.”

“He's a god.”

An older soldier finally broke away from the group and approached. He studied me for a long moment before coming to attention and offering a crisp salute.

“Lord Grimm.”

I gave a nod. “Have we met?”

“No, sir.” The corner of his mouth softened. “But my son came home because of you.”

Before I could answer, he turned and returned to his post.

A younger soldier hesitated before speaking up. “My lord...” He looked almost embarrassed. “Is it true you fought a thousand Myrddin by yourself?”

I raised an eyebrow. “No.”

His shoulders slumped.

“It was probably a few hundred,” I admitted. “...And I had help.”

Laughter rippled through the soldiers.

The tension eased immediately.

A moment later the estate guard returned, accompanied by a steward.

“Lord Grimm, the governor will see you immediately. If you'll follow me.”

I nodded to the soldiers and entered the estate.

The steward led me across the courtyard, up a broad staircase, and along a quiet corridor before stopping at a polished oak door.

He knocked.

“Enter,” came a voice from within.

The steward opened the door and stepped aside.

I entered.

The door clicked quietly closed behind me.

Two men occupied the office. One sat behind an enormous desk of dark polished wood. The other remained standing over a sprawling map of Halemarch covered with colored pins and handwritten notes.

The man behind the desk rose immediately. “Lord Grimm.” He offered a tired smile. “I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

He was somewhere in his late fifties, heavyset, with neatly trimmed gray hair and beard. His clothes were practical, tailored from fine cloth without a hint of extravagance, and two fingers bore permanent stains of ink. A pair of spectacles perpetually threatened to slide from his nose until he absently pushed them back into place. His Faith was the silver of duty woven with the gray of perspective, its texture smooth and layered like stone worn by decades beneath a river's current.

“As do I,” I replied, taking his hand.

“I'm Owayn Weavelyn.” He gestured toward the other man. “This is Marshal Walthor Cartwyn.”

The marshal straightened and crossed the room.

He was around fifty, broad-shouldered and a couple of inches shorter than me. His nose had been broken so many times it no longer remembered its original shape, and a scar split one side of his lip before creasing his chin. His Faith bore the silver of duty and the black of will, dense and unyielding like hammered steel.

His handshake was firm. “I've heard stories.”

I smiled. “Most of them forget how many other people were there.”

One corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“The High Council sent you?” Weavelyn asked.

“I'm here to investigate possible Covenant involvement.”

The amusement vanished from both men's faces.

“You think this is organized?” Cartwyn asked.

“I think someone's trying very hard to make people angry.”

The marshal nodded. “Matches what we've been seeing.”

“Riots in the capital seemed to pop up in different districts simultaneously.” He paused and looked up at me. “Twice we've arrived before they began.”

I frowned. “How?”

“Anonymous warnings. They've been accurate every time.”

I glanced between the two men. “So someone's feeding you intelligence.”

“Good intelligence,” Cartwyn agreed.

“Anything like that for Halemarch?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.” He let out a weary sigh. “We're not here to start a war. We're here to keep the peace.”

I looked toward the window overlooking the city. “I'm not convinced the people will see the difference.” I turned back toward them. “You've already got watchers on the streets. People are afraid to say the queen's name out loud. Citizens are carrying weapons.”

I met the marshal's eyes. “If somebody throws a spark into this city… it's going to burn.”

“My men have strict orders,” Cartwyn said evenly. “No lethal force unless there is absolutely no alternative.”

I nodded slowly. “I believe you.”

I looked between the governor and the marshal.

“So, what's the plan?”