Hubris - 47. Matthiesen

Benedict and Lucijan led Crowe and Barghast down a long corridor with white pillars. A blue carpet, the shade of the resistance, swept down the length of the hallway. Benedict had waved the guards away, but this did not mean the practitioner and the Okanavian were not being watched. Quite the opposite in fact. There were guards stationed everywhere: in every corner and on every balcony.

There were no statues of deities - not of Monad or Elysia or Hamon or their servants. There were statues of war heroes who had fought and sacrificed their lives for the resistance, an organization that had proven to be atheistic, but not amoral. The closer I get to the painting of war, the bigger the painting gets, Crowe thought.

Up ahead of him Lucijan hissed at Matthiesen in harsh whispers. A heavy silence hung around the Governor that said he was not listening, let alone present. Crowe did his best to hang back several steps, to give the two men space. Naturally Barghast matched him step for step. As always he could feel the lycan watching him from the corner of his eye. Protecting him. Always protecting him.

At the top of a long spiral staircase, through an arched doorway, they met in the large room the practitioner had glimpsed once before. Crowe did not spot the narrow-faced Roan sitting in one of the armchairs before the fire that had been prepared in anticipation of their rival; this was a private conversation and few would know of it. Benedict gestured for Crowe to sit in one of the seats with a ringed hand.

The practitioner was grateful for the chance to sit down. The journey from the beach had worn on him ways it had not his Okanavian companion. His inner thighs were chafed raw from riding the saddle, making walking a painful affair. “Wine?” Matthiesen as he crossed the room to a large mahogany desk. Unlike Lucijan, who continued to glare at the herald, his eyes were not narrowed in suspicion. He was simply a businessman offering another drink to another businessman. “Would your lycan friend like to partake in a glass as well?”

Barghast’s ears twitched in the Governor's direction; not once had he stopped eyeing the man. While he could understand Crowe he could not fully understand the people of the practitioner’s land - though he was learning quickly. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, making him look formidable even in the Governor’s impressive space. Crowe relayed the question. He spoke in a soothing tone, making it clear they were in good company. Barghast relaxed, nodding at the offer. Glasses were offered and taken. The tension between the party seemed to have eased between everyone in the room except for Lucijan who seemed determined to be contrary.

The Okanavian sniffed the wine cautiously before taking a sip. Crowe resisted the urge to drain the glass of its contents. The wine was both tart and sweet, and cool to the throat. “How did you know to expect my arrival?” He’d managed to keep the edge of suspicion out of his voice; perhaps the wine had helped.

Matthiesen’s eyes shot away from him. He raised the goblet to his lips and drank deeply. Crowe did not like the way the blood drained from his face or the wine painted his lips red, making him look corpselike. It was not the look of a man who had been sent holy signs but infernal omens.

Again Crowe felt the roar of the mysterious fire within him, driving him to act. “I do not mean to be disrespectful, Governor. I imagine the burden you carry is great. But we have traveled many miles for many months, a majority under great duress. I won’t disrespect your wisdom by mewling about the state of things outside the city when I imagine you have already been well informed.”

Benedict Matthiesen smiled at him and there was something knowing and familiar in it. Worse than that, there was a terror in the stiffened curve of his lips. “I wish I could, more than anything. Unfortunately I cannot have this conversation at the present moment.” Something guarded and panicky entered Matthiesen’s dark eyes; it was the look of a cornered rabbit.

“Can't or won't?” the herald asked in a steely voice.

“It’s as you have said, you and your companion have traveled thousands of miles and however the strain of my burden might appear to affect me, I do not carry the fate of the entire Iteration on my shoulders. That being said, will you kindly give me until tomorrow evening to explain?”

The desperate pull in his voice frayed at Crowe’s tenuous resolve. He clung to it with bloodied fingertips. “We have encountered many trials in our long journey to your beloved city. We have encountered torchcoats, servants of Hamon, and two skirmishes with the Black King himself. Skirmishes that have not left us entirely unscathed. I must ask…Are you a friend or a foe?”

Matthiesen grimaced. “Honestly, I cannot say for sure at the moment, herald. While I can say my intentions are good and I certainly have no direct intention of doing you harm we are slaves to the machinations of the Iteration.”

“Indeed,” the practitioner said with a matching grimace.

“Then I think you will also agree that there are cycles within cycles. Each of us…” Matthiesen’s gaze swept the room to include a remote-faced Barghast and an increasingly bemused Lucijan. “...are spinning on a track with its own trajectory.” His eyes fell back on Crowe with a weight that had the practitioner feeling as if the heels of his boots were sinking into the floor. The mysterious fire was back, but it was not the roar it had been in the past. It pulled him in a different direction. It calmed him.

“At least take the rest of this evening and the day tomorrow to enjoy the city,” Matthiesen continued, though the air of a desperate man who teeters on the edge of hysteria was gone. “While the city no longer retains the beauty of its glory days, it still has much to offer. You told me once how you and a friend of yours named Bennett used to dream of coming here…”

The Governor's words were like a slap to the face. The practitioner lifted a hand, silencing him. When he spoke his voice came out sharp as steel and cold as ice. “How could you possibly know about Bennett? I have never seen you before a day in my life. We have never talked before this moment…as far as I am aware. And yet you seem intent on keeping me in the dark. I really don't think that's a wise idea. Especially when I am only here to be of service.”

Benedict ran a hand over his sweat-sheened face. His skin had darkened he practitioner regret losing his temple. This is clearly a man who is not well. Is he under the influence of something? Inferno perhaps? Something else Barghast and I have yet to encounter. Monad, help me. With each new discovery it becomes more and more difficult to make sense of anything.

“Monad led you to me for a reason, did he not?” Benedict asked in a trembling voice after a long moment of silence. “You were guided by the Eternal City the same way I was. Deep down inside you know that you can trust me and that we are meant to work together in order to end this nightmare…”

…end this nightmare.

The words echoed with the ringing of a coin striking stone. Crowe blinked. He gulped. Matthiesen was right. Deep down inside he did know he could trust the Governor of Caemyth and leader of the resistance in spite of the lack of evidence. Once more I am being tested. Once more I am being asked to take a leap of faith. Each test grows more difficult, each leap spread further apart.

“Aye,” he conceded reluctantly. He couldn't help but wonder if he was retreading the steps of a fool. “Let tomorrow's golden hours a time for respite and the night’s blackened hours a time for truth. Is this something we can agree to?”

The herald and the governor closed the matter with a final toast and the clasping of hands. Crowe did not miss the exchange of adversarial but knowing glances between Barghast and Lucijan: the dubious understanding between guardians who fear their charges have led them into another dangerous alliance.

Matthiesen promised Crowe and Barghast they could have free run of the city during their stay behind the walls of Caemyth. “Make sure you take the time to explore the market,” the governor with the renewed air of a swindling merchant. The smell of fear and sweat lingering around him like a black cloud hinted at an unpleasant conversation that had only been temporarily averted.

Only once the door to Matthiesen’s apartment had closed and he could no longer feel Lucijan's scathing glare on his back did the sorcerer realize he was glad to be out of the room. A room that had smelled rife with exhaustion and paranoia. A gloom that Crowe was all too familiar with. You knew such madness when Hamon’s servants planted the seeds of deceit in your mind, Crowe reminded himself grimly. You remember that particularly nasty stretch of hell when you didn't sleep because they pursued you relentlessly; the way innocents turned into demons in the blink of an eye. And though those servants are dead - if they can truly be killed - many of the Black King's emissaries lurk in the shadows. Though they may not be able to walk the plains of the material universe, that does not mean they cannot orchestrate events from behind the scenes.

The anxious chatter in his mind ceased abruptly when four guards closed around them. Barghast tensed but did not growl. His tail merely flicked agitatedly back and forth with a warning glare. The leader of the group, a middle-aged man, calmly explained they would be escorted by carriage to a penthouse suite where they would be housed for the night.

Housed or imprisoned?

He was relieved when Barghast drew close, resting a heavy but reassuring paw on his shoulder. Crowe rewarded him with a pat on the back that in turn earned him another playful swat on the rump from the lycan’s tail.

The practitioner spent the next several minutes amused with the sight of Barghast trying to squeeze himself into the carriage. The narrow passageway of caves were no obstacle for the lycan, but the tight space of the cabin proved to be a challenge of great difficulty and patience. By the time the Okanavian managed to force himself into the carriage, much of the paint and wood had been clawed away. The sight was not unlike that of the crustacean attack on the beach. “I’m sorry, twin o’rre,” the lycan groaned once he was inside and the wagon had taken off.

One street turned into another as the carriage swayed this way and that. Barghast yanked Crowe into his lap as if he were a talisman, growling Okanavian prayers under his breath. He exuded a musty smell that made the practitioner feel light-headed. In spite of the thrill of physical contact it was long before the sprawl of labyrinthine passageways reflected the uneasy interworkings of Crowe’s mind.

He acted as if he knew me…as if we’d met before. He knew about Bennett even though he and I have never exchanged a word before today.

Another mystery. Another puzzle he and Barghast had been dropped in the middle of. It cheapened the thrill of being in Caemyth. He searched beneath the flickering domes of gas lamps and torches grafted into moldering brick walls for pitted faces veiled in tattered cloth. None presented themselves to the naked eye but Crowe had learned not to trust what his eyes had showed him the hard way. It’s best to walk along the tightrope between rationality and superstition, he thought.

Of course tired eyes and fraught minds could see anything. While his mind was certainly alert, their travels were starting to catch up with him. It would be a relief once Barghast and he were alone behind closed doors again.

He had enough time to smoke a joint before the carriage came to a stop before a large tenement. While it did not possess the marble opulence where Benedict’s office had been housed, the tenement was in better shape than the sagging edifices the practitioner had glimpsed when they’d first entered the city.

Crowe and Barghast were led up a long flight of stairs past several landings. The practitioner heard the sound of life playing out behind several of the doors - a mother singing lullabies to lull her squalling babe to sleep, the sound of lovemaking - but the corridors were deserted with no one else to greet them. The sorcerer was grateful for this. He already felt uncomfortable with the lingering glances cast by the guards.

He supposed it was unreasonable to begrudge them their curiosity.

Crowe and Barghast did not relax the moment the double doors into the suite were closed. They hovered before the doors, the practitioner watching intently while the Okanavian listened. “They’ve left,” the barbarian rumbled after several seconds. “Do you sense anything?”

The herald shook his head, frowning intently. He couldn’t get the look of terror and exhaustion on Matthiesen’s face. He dreaded to think what could drive a man of reputed composure to the brink of insanity. You’ll find out soon enough.

Barghast pulled him from his thoughts by offering a paw. He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the gloom of the room. “Let’s see what we have here,” he said with a buoyant wag of his tail.

Taking the offered paw, the sorcerer couldn’t help but smile back.

After almost a year of traveling together, they’d stayed in plenty of taverns along the way. Outside of basic variations, the room always had the same setup. Looking upon the spacious room with wonder, the practitioner got his first true glimpse of what a suite was. The apartment had been opened up into a single room so that the large four poster bed, wardrobe, and crystal glass doors leading out onto the balcony were on one side of the room while the dining room table and sitting area were on the other. A doorway led into a large bathing room with a large basin large enough to fit two dozen bodies in the dip. Crowe marveled at the faucet sticking up out of the marble floor. Plumbing, he thought. Actual plumbing.

Back in the sitting room area they found wood in the fireplace and a handwritten note written by Matthiesen himself. The note explained that a bag of coins had been left on the dining room table to enjoy during the day. The names of several venues had been written down as polite suggestions.

The note was written in tight cramped handwriting. Crowe didn’t bother to finish reading it. Now that Barghast and he were behind closed doors he wanted to leave all else outside the room. Slipping through shadow, he slid open the double glass doors and stepped out onto the balcony. Weeks ago he'd stood on such a balcony in the Mirror Expanse overlooking the frozen tundra.

The icy mountains and glaciers had been replaced by smoky chimneys and the rippling channel of water visible beyond the great walls of Caemyth.

“What did that man say to frighten you?”

The growl in Barghast’s voice made something in the practitioner flinch. He lit another joint to buy himself another few seconds. He glanced at the lycan, waving a smoking match through the air with his crippled hand. “He talked about things only I could know - only I could tell him - even though we’d never met. I would certainly remember if he had,” the practitioner replied in Okanavian. “He knew about Bennett and our boyhood fantasies to come here. To meet him. He was a hero to us. The only man brave enough to stand up to Drajen and his torchcoats.”

Barghast drifted closer, slowly looming larger. His eyes were fixed on Crowe with a predatory fascination. He seemed to grow, to expand. To ascend. “Are you disappointed after meeting your hero? I must admit he did not seem like much.”

“I think I am beyond disappointment, my sweet lycan,” the herald said with a bitterness he had not intended to vocalize. “He is but a man. As am I.”

The barbarian now stood directly before him, a solid wall of muscle and fur that blotted out the stars and the moon. The sharp tip of a fang poked out from his lower lip, making it look as if his muzzle was set in a permanent grimace. That grimace curled into a smile of utter affection. The trunks of his arms enclosed around the practitioner, pulling him to his chest while the wind coming in from off the coast combed through his fur. “You are not just a man.”

“I am.” Crowe ran his fingers over the bony ridges of the Okanavian’s knuckles. His eyes were silver pools in the dark of night. “I am capable of great failure as we saw in the Mirror Expanse. Were it not for my actions, the Black King would not have been able to walk the earth, Petras’ followers would still be alive, the ruins of Vaylin would still be standing, and we might have had a shot at discovering answers as to why these Iterations keep repeating. While I hesitate to say anything for certain anymore, I can say this: I will spend the rest of my days doing everything I can to make sure a disaster of that magnitude doesn’t happen again.”

Barghast’s other paw rose to cover the other half of his face. Slowly he lowered himself, stooping until his gaze was level with the practitioner’s. “I would scold you for returning to that dark well that stands in the center of your mind, but at this point I know it would do no good, my beloved. And I certainly have no wish to scold you. Those fools were doomed long before we got there. Long before you provoked Hamon from rising from his Black Throne. Are you so intent on tormenting yourself?”

His lips closed over Crowe’s, stalling any thoughts the herald might have voiced on the subject. His mind had a way of emptying itself completely when Barghast kissed him.

The warm breeze stirred around them, seeming to encourage this exchange in affection. When he opened his eyes, Crowe found Barghast staring deeply into the windows to his soul.7 The twin glints in those golden rings were ones of utter bliss. Once again, the thought that they only seemed to grow closer the longer they were together, the more they discovered about each other, made the practitioner feel feverish with giddiness.

Somewhere a dog barked. Voices shouted in cries of excitement and gruff curses of frustration when traffic stalled too long. A high voice rose above the streets, chanting in a high undulating voice that Crowe was only vaguely away of. Barghast let out a low satisfied moan that sounded more like a growl. The practitioner responded with a gasp of pure pleasure, relishing the way Barghast surrounded him, hunkered before him, sheltered him even though they were safe for the time being.

Barghast pulled back, his chest heaving, his tail swishing languidly. Crowe was not sure how long they looked at each other, in a world and a society they'd created for just the two of them, before he turned to study te aero view of the streets below. Barghast continued to hold him, caging him in his embrace. Occasionally he dropped kisses against the curve of his ear and the top of his head.

“Whatever happens, whatever trials we shall face in the coming days, we will deal with them the way we always have: together.” The crackle of Barghast's voice was gravelly and subterranean.

“No mountains shall stand before us.” Crowe’s skin buzzed against the Okanavian’s touch.

                                                                 …

Barghast’s paw was a heavy weight on the sorcerer’s shoulder was a reassuring weight that steered him protectively through the throng of people that pressed in on them from all sides.

After the constant gloom of the Northern region, the bright blue sky and golden light was a welcome change. Barghast's tail wagged excitedly.bFor the first time he seemed unfettered by the riot of unfamiliar places and faces. His excitement was palpable, his voice oscillating between a yip and a growl with each new discovery. He pointed at brightly colored awnings. He exclaimed over trinkets that had been wielded into various shapes from wired steel. The herald could only follow in his wake, letting Barghast lead the exploration of the massive, overcrowded city. Were it not for the Okanavian’s superior senses and infectious confidence, Crowe would have been overwhelmed by the roar of human activity. Instead he only felt great joy and amusement - a level of enjoyment he'd hoped to experience with Bennett once not so long ago. Better to spend it with someone who actually knows how to return my affection, he thought, running a thumb over the barbarian’s immense knuckles.

Muzzle twitching, Barghast stopped at a large stall with wicker baskets brimming with produce. Many of the blankets had been picked clean or knocked onto the ground in a desperate haste to grab produce before the last of it was claimed. The lycan’s eyes were larger than Barghast had ever seen before. “What are these, twin o’rre?” He held up a green olive to his snout before sniffing experimentally.

Crowe picked an olive up, turning it this way and that in illustration. “They’re called olives.”

“Have you ever had one before?”

“A couple of times. But in the North they are quite the commodity; a commodity just means it is highly expensive since they are mostly native to the South.” He watched the Okanavian flit from basket to basket, oblivious of the curious glances thrown their way.

“What do they taste like?”

“They’re a bit salty. They’re very good.” Crowe passed the merchant four bronze coins in exchange for two olives. Olives were a luxury he could afford since he was spending the Governor's money. We might as well as enjoy it while we have it. He popped an olive into his mouth, grinning deliberately as he chewed. Barghast watched the practitioner with the undiminished fascination of their first encounter. Crowe wiggled a finger in a gesture for him to come closer. “Do you not have olives in the desert? Would you like to try one?”

“We have something like it, but they are not this rich or bright in color.”

Pinning it between his thumb and index finger, the practitioner instructed the lycan to open. The barbarian obeyed without hesitation. His jaw unhinged like a trap door to reveal the pink lining of his gums and a top and bottom line of incisors meant for tearing through flesh. Crowe tossed the bit of fruit inside the Okanavian’s maw and watched as his oversized companion chewed thoughtfully.

“What do you think?” Judging from the way Barghast groaned in relish, he already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it directly from the source. “I have never tasted anything so wonderful.” Seeming to realize he'd made a mistake, Barghast hastily ran the pad of his thumb across the ridge of the practitioner’s cheek. “Other than you, of course. There's not anything in this world that tastes better than you do.”

Crowe looked away, his cheeks flaming. His heart pounded against the wall of his chest. “It’s not a sin to like the taste of other things than myself. It’s certainly not the betrayal you seem to think it is.”

“Not at all, my beloved.” The look the lycan gave the practitioner was so full of happiness and love - happy to be with me, Crowe thought though he did not know he was thinking this, love he feels for me - it made Crowe's legs feel weak. “You know I can't help but dote on you and shower you with adoration and affection any chance I can get.”

The practitioner pretended to be interested in a seashell bracelet; his face burned more hot than ever. The clanging roar of bells pulled the two travelers deeper into the bowels of the city. They’d walked the length of several city blocks when Barghast casted a dark look over his shoulder. Not more than a second or two later, he pulled the practitioner to the side, steering him beneath the overhang of a bridge. Barghast pushed Crowe gently against the wall, shielding him with his body as if to shield him from view. “We’re being followed. A single man. He’s been tracking us for two blocks now…I wasn’t sure at first, which is why I didn’t say anything. You can’t see him from this vantage point because there are too many people.”

“Can you tell if he’s a servant of Hamon or is it too hard to say?”

Bargahst whined. “It is hard to say…there are too many smells, all of them so wonderful.” A thick string of saliva swung from his bottom lip. Crowe wiped it away with his hand, the gesture unconscious. He did not wipe his hands on his breeches.

“Relax,” he encouraged the lycan, throwing chest rubs into the mix. “Let’s let him catch up and give him in a nice surprise. Until then come here…” It struck him this was a strange moment to start canoodling, but the thought dispersed the moment Barghast sagged against him, leaning in for the kiss.

This was where their stalker found them, two lovers simply stopping under the bridge for a bit of necking; it just so happened one of the lovers was a lycan. When he felt the lycan tense beneath his questing hands and heard the footfalls bouncing off the walls of the chamber, Crowe glanced slyly at their approaching tail. He recognized the narrow features of the man immediately.

Roan.

Suddenly the man’s absence in the meeting with Benedict made sense. It certainly was not an implausible hunch.

Crowe gestured for Barghast to step back by patting him on the shoulder. He turned to face Roan as the man came to a stop with a start of surprise. The anxious flash in his eyes told the practitioner he hadn’t expected or intended to catch up.

“Hello, Roan,” he said in his most courteous voice. He grinned, watching the blood drain from the man’s face. Roan was dressed in a dark blue cloak with the brighter blue diamond of the resistance embroidered on his back. Had he been a torchcoat, Crowe would have sliced his throat open with a dagger.

The man stopped as if he'd stepped on broken glass with bare feet. A nerve twitched visibly in his face; his expression closed like a trap door, turning remote, but Crowe had caught the tell all the same; he hoped this meant he had the upper hand. “How do you know my name?”

The practitioner dismissed the question. “Was it Matthiesen or his lapdog, Lucijan, who sent you to spy on me?”

“We wanted to make sure you were not an informant.”

Crowe laughed, the sound caustic. “And who would I spy for? The Theocracy? Hamon, the Black King of Inferno?” He held up his necklace for Roan to see. “I can assure you I am no spy.”

Roan nodded but the stiffness of his neck and the skeptical pursed mouth expression on his face told the practitioner he did not believe him. “If you are not a spy, then how do you know my name?”

“Monad guided me to you. I know about Loras and the missing refugees and soldiers. I was there when Lucijan, Mathiesen, and yourself were looking at a map of this region.”

Roan appeared to eye him indifferently. When he spoke, his voice was cold and clinical. “There was no one else in the room with us. Just us three. How did you get inside without being detected?”

Crowe noticed his hand was close to the pocket of his robes. The practitioner curled his hands into fists to keep from reaching for his rod. He did not want to start a conflict with this man if he could avoid it. “I astral projected.”

Once more, Roan's mask of composure slipped long enough for the sorcerer to see what existed beneath the surface. Roan still looked simultaneously skeptical and shocked. “That is a skill that was wiped out by the plague of madness; your people no longer possess the power they once did.”

“You are right about that. However, I am not just any practitioner, I am the herald of Monad.”

Roan blinked. “Lucijan said you had made such a claim.”

“It’s not a claim, it's the truth, and if you don't believe me watch and you will.”

Something flashed in Roan’s eyes. His lips curled in a humorless smile. “Oh, you can believe we will be watching. Until then I hope you enjoy your stay here in Caemyth.” He turned, the tail of his robes billowing around him.

Barghast snarled something under his breath. His tail flicked agitatedly through the air. He rounded on Crowe, his fur bristling. “How can you let these people insult your reputation like this, twin o’rre? Your loyalty? How can they accuse you of being a spy?”

“As hard as it is, you can't blame them, Barghast. We are in a time of war. You’ve seen the state of things both inside and outside the city. It is up to me as herald to win their trust.”

Barghast pressed his ears flat with a sigh of defeat. “You are a far wiser warrior than I. Our enemies will do well not to underestimate your patience.”

Crowe grimaced. His thoughts took him back to the Mirror Expanse where a pit had been drilled down crust-deep into the earth. The Black King's gloating face appeared before his mind's eye. “I haven't always been patient or made the best decisions, however you might try to convince me otherwise. Actions have consequences, Barghast...even the smallest of them. Always remember that.”

Crowe had not been telling the full truth in pretending being watched closely didn’t bother him; any excitement he felt in exploring the rest of the city curdled inside his chest. While he could certainly understand Lucijan's need for caution, it didn’t stop the notion of being suspected a traitor from chafing.

When they returned to their apartment a courier who could have been Crowe’s age was waiting outside the door; a blue ribbon was tied through the belt loop of his soot-stained britches.

The blood drained from the courier's face when he saw the eight foot tall Okanavian casually following the sorcerer. He handed a rolled up piece of parchment with a matching blue ribbon to Crowe without looking in the practitioner’s direction. The parchment turned out to be an invitation to Benedict Matthiesen’s residence for dinner.

An invitation or a summons? A simple dinner or an elaborate trap? the practitioner thought.

“The Governor's invited us for dinner,” he replied to the lycan’s questioning look.

“Why would he invite us to join him for dinner?”

“To kill us or to ask us for help.”

“If he asks us for help?”

“We help him because that's what we do: we help people.”

“And if he tries to kill us?”

The herald let his grim answering silence speak for him.

                                                                              …

The carriage trundled down a long narrow road lined on both sides with trees edged in shadow. Somewhere in that strange, impenetrable murk an howl hooted, seeming to make a mockery of the carriages safe passage. Barghast’s tail rapped an anxious song against the wooden seats.

“I wish you would stop that.” Crowe blew out a ring of smoke through the open shutter.

“I am sorry, twin o'rre. I can't help it. I am nervous.”

The herald smiled at his furry companion. He rested a palm on top of the lycan's hand. “I know you are. There's nothing to be afraid of. Not tonight.” Normally this would have been enough to convince the Okanavian, but he continued to watch the sorcerer dubiously. “Do you not believe me?”

Barghast gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I believe you, my beloved. I will always believe you without hesitancy, without fail. It's just…now I see why the wheels in your head are always turning. The more we discover about the world the more complicated it becomes.”

From the very beginning the world has always been complicated. Before he could give voice to the thought, the driver steered the carriage around a final vanguard of trees. Behind a black wrought iron gate wreathed in tendrils of pale mist, the practitioner caught his first glimpse of Matthiesen’s residence. The manor loomed larger the closer the carriage drew to the gate. The gate was pushed open by a figure dressed in black robes. The light flickering from a lamp could not penetrate the veil of shadows within the hood; Crowe suppressed a shiver. He lit a joint in the hopes that the taste of the herb would calm his nerves. Nothing to be afraid of? You spoke too soon. Anything could be waiting for you inside the house.

The mist parted, his view of the manor now completely unobstructed. He marveled at the thick white pillars in front of the house and the sweep of stairs that led up to the thick white windows. Already the doors swung open as the carriage came to a stop beside the fountain. Crowe recognized the two figures even though he'd seen them both once in separate instances: Lucijan and Roan. The slender, narrow shape of the Governor was nowhere in sight. Had the invitation from the courier been a ploy just to get him to come out here with his guard down? He pulled his rod from the pocket of the robes. The runes lit up when he pushed a whisper of his will into the thrumming wood. Don’t jump to conclusions, he reminded himself, though he could already feel a bead of sweat dripping down the side of his face. No one’s started shooting yet. He exchanged an anxious glance with Barghast; he regretted telling the Okanavian to leave his rifle behind.

“Ready?”

“No,” the lycan said, “but what choice do we have?”

“We don’t. I’d say we’re past the point of changing our minds.”

Crowe pushed the door open with the heel of his boot. He drew himself to his full height, pulling down his hood to fix Lucijan and Roan a glare. While he certainly had no intention of starting unnecessary conflict with these men, he would not hide the fact he was displeased with their treatment of him - even if their caution was understandable. There’s something to be said about good manners…even in a time of war.

“You’re late.” Lucijan grinned at him the way a shark might grin at flailing prey. He raised a cigar to his scarred lips. “We weren’t sure you would make it, herald.” He said herald with a mocking lilt that made Crowe’s skin buzz.

In his mind, Crowe imagined a bootheel stomping down on an open flame, extinguishing its light. He affected a grin of casual indifference. “My apologies for the tardiness. I hope I did not keep the Governor waiting. Unfortunately, my companion had a hard time getting into the carriage.” Sure enough he turned towards the Okanavian who was straining to push himself through the small opening, dropping a string of curses in Okanavi. Crowe stepped forward, dropping his voice into a whisper. He held out his crippled hand to the lycan. He dropped his voice into a whisper. “Slow down, Barghast. By straining, you’re just making it more difficult for yourself.”

Barghast sucked in a great breath. His shoulders rose before settling into submission. After another minute of struggle, he managed to squeeze himself through the opening. “Sorry, twin o’rre.” He cast a mistrustful begrudging look up at Lucijan and Roan.

The sorcerer rubbed at his back, pressing a quick kiss to his shoulder blade. “Never apologize to anyone, my loving lycan. Least of all to me.”

This earned him a gentle caress across the cheek from the Okanavian’s tail.

No sooner had Crowe and Barghast turned to challenge Lucijan and Roan, the entry doors at the top of the stairs opened once more long enough to cast a rectangle of light on the flagstones. Matthiesen appeared in a blue freshly-tailored three-piece suit with a black bow tie adorning the collar of his shirt. His hair had been slicked and combed back with oil, his beard trimmed into something civilized. Crowe could not say he’d come similarly dressed. Though dress robes had been sent to him in light of the formal (and ominous) dinner from another courier, the practitioner had made a point to stick with his uniform black robes. It was one thing to use manners; it was another to bow down in submission.

Judging from the look of surprise when he saw his two advisors standing on the steps, Matthiesen had not invited Lucijan and Roan for the occasion. Anger turned the brackets of distress around his whiskered mouth into cracks before being quickly tucked out of sight as soon as they’d appeared.

“Not to be overly candid, gentlemen, but I did not invite either one of you here. This is a private discussion between the herald and myself.”

“I think this should be a discussion in which we are all involved.” Crowe did not miss the lingering look of concern Roan gave Mathiesen. These men were not just bound by politics, they were friends.

“I agree,” the sorcerer chimed in; he ignored the flash of disdain Lucijan flashed in his direction. He grinned. “All three of you were in the room together while discussing the black spot - the place where Commander Gyrell's force and the refugees disappeared - were you not?”

It gave him a savage thrill to strike indignance off Lucijan's face and replace it with shock.

The practitioner was not done twisting the dagger. Any thoughts of maintaining diplomacy had vanished. Let me make my mark clear enough so he knows not to cross me ever again. “Still think I'm a spy, Lucijan? Not many spies I know would wear Monad’s sigil. Not when it would draw unwanted attention…which I would think defeats the purpose of being a spy. My hope is that after this dinner my cooperation will prove to be a comfort to you and you won't feel the need to have me followed when I'm in the city.”

Benedict rounded first on Roan and then on Lucijan, eyes flashing with tired rage where they lingered. The practitioner sensed not just anger, but hurt. The hurt one feels when someone they love and trust with their lives betrays them. Secrets and lies are the poison that blackens the heart, the herald thought. He told himself it was too late to take back the irreparable fallout he might have put into motion between the three men.

All because Lucijan insulted my reputation.

Another hard lesson delivered through failure should this prove to be the case. He gulped. The last thing he wanted to be was an agent of chaos like Hamon and his ilk.

“You and I will be having a discussion about this in due time - and I can assure you it will not be a pleasant conversation!” Matthiesen’s shoulders rose with the cool, calculated fury of his words. Such was the look on his face Lucijan looked away. Matthiesen strikes me has the sort of man who's feathers are not easily ruffled…but when they are, people stop and take notice, the practitioner thought. With a single comment he'd learned quite a bit about the men by how interacted with one another. He was eager (frightened) to see what surprises (terrors) the ominous dinner would hold on this warm Summer night.

“Alas,” the Governor continued with a sniff, “the practitioner is right, though what I will have to say over dinner will be hard to understand…or believe. I will simply tell staff to set the dinner table for two more guests.” The sharpness of his voice did not leave until he turned to face the practitioner and the lycan. He climbed down the steps with a grin that was both cautious and apologetic. He looked boyish and like an old man in the same moment. “I hope you can forgive my companions. They did not inform me that they planned to have you followed. I can assure you I did not decree such orders, herald.”

Crowe exhaled deeply through his nose. “No offense taken, Governor. I hope I did not spill bad blood between the three of you by bringing things out into the open. It came from a place of childishness. Apparently I still have some growing in my boots to do.”

Matthiesen chuckled. His smile was small and tired but it was small, and he looked at the practitioner with a familiarity that made the sorcerer feel as if the stone beneath his feet would turn to stone at any second. “As ever, you are wise beyond your years, herald.” If he noticed the dazed look on Crowe’s face, he did not show it. “Enough talk. The conversation ahead will be unpleasant as it is. I know I do not look forward to it…”

Lucijan and Roan shot looks over the Governor's head. Crowe did not miss the signal of uneasiness that passed silently between the two men. He felt Barghast draw beside him, a furry arm encircling his shoulders. Crowe leaned against him, grateful for the comfort. Benedict waved, beckoning the four men to follow him into the house.

Crowe shivered, unable to shake the feeling that something wrong was afoot.