Jan
ca’Vörl
“I’M SORRY, ONCZIO FYNN,” Jan whispered. “This
shouldn’t have happened, and I hope . . . I hope that this wasn’t
my fault.” His voice echoed in the vault, stirring faint ghosts of
himself. The guttering light of the torch made shadows lurch and
jump around the sealing stones of the tombs. Twice now he’d watched
the Hïrzg laid to rest in these dank and somber chambers, far too
quickly. Vatarh and son. At least Fynn’s interment hadn’t been
accompanied by omens and further death. His had been a slow, somber
ritual, one that left Jan’s chest heavy and cold.
He’d searched
everywhere for Elissa. He’d sent riders out from Brezno, scouring
the roads and inns and villages for her in all directions. Roderigo
had told him that he hadn’t seen Elissa near Fynn’s chambers. “But
I was away from him when it happened. She might have managed to
sneak in—or someone else might have. I don’t know. I just don’t
know.”
The words tasted of
bile and poison. He tried to convince himself that it had all been
coincidence. Matarh had shown him the letter she’d received from
the ca’Karina family: Elissa was an impostor pretending to be ca’.
But perhaps that was all: she’d fled because she’d known that her
deception was going to be revealed. Maybe that was the entirety of
it. Or . . . Perhaps she’d gone to see Fynn, to plead her case with
him knowing that she was about to be exposed as a fraud, and had
interrupted The White Stone at his work. Perhaps she’d fled in
terror before the famed assassin had glimpsed her, too frightened
to even stay in the city after what she’d seen. Or
perhaps—worse—The White Stone had seen
her, and taken her to murder elsewhere.
None of it convinced
Jan. He knew what they were thinking, all of them, and when the
suspicion settled in his gut, he also knew they were right. A
pretender in the court, a pretender who was the lover of the King’s
favorite companion—the conclusion was obvious. Elissa had been the
White Stone’s accomplice, or she was the White Stone
herself.
Either thought made
Jan’s head whirl. He remembered the time he’d spent with her, the
conversations, the flirtations, the kisses; the rising, quick
breaths as they explored each other; the slick, oily heat of
lovemaking, the laughter afterward . . . Her body, sleek and
enticing in the warm bath of candlelight; the curve of her breasts
beaded with the sweat of their passion; the dark, soft and enticing
triangle at the joining of her legs . . .
He shook his head to
banish the thoughts.
It couldn’t be her.
Couldn’t. Yet . . .
Jan put his hand on
the sealing stone of Fynn’s tomb, letting his fingers trace the
incised bas-reliefs there. “I’m sorry,” he said again to the
corpse.
If it had, somehow, been Elissa, then the question still
unanswered was who had hired The White Stone. The Stone would not
kill without a contract. Someone had paid for this. Whether Elissa
had been the knife or simply the helper didn’t matter. It hadn’t
been her who had made the decision. Someone else had ordered the
death.
Jan bowed his head
until his forehead touched the cold stone. “I’ll find out who did
this,” he said: to Cénzi, to Fynn, to the haunted air. “I’ll find
out, and I will give you justice, Onczio.”
Jan took in a long
breath of the cold, damp air. He rose on protesting knees and took
the torch from its sconce. Then he began the long climb back up
toward the day.