Simon rode for two miles under the moonlit sky before dumping the body in a ditch. He felt worse about not stopping to bury the bandit than he had about killing him. It’s one thing to kill someone who deserves it, but it’s another to desecrate a corpse, he thought as he remounted and continued on.
That night, he rode only until he found a farm. He persuaded the family that lived there to let him sleep in the barn since he didn’t feel like making camp so late. The following day, he stayed at an inn he’d stayed at on his previous trip. This time he didn’t drink, though. He just stayed in his room studying his notes in a small mirror as he did everything he could to recall the man who had strangled him to death.
He stayed there part of the next day, too, but only so that he’d arrive at Duke Brin’s estate right at sunset. That would give Simon an easy excuse to stay the night, which would be the best way to get Mr. Bryer alone and ask some hard questions.
How to go about that, though, was a mystery. Simon wasn’t above torturing the man, but a scream or two would summon servants or guards. “I have some coin,” he mused as he approached his destination, “but not enough to bribe the trusted servant of a noble, I think. Perhaps I can get him drunk.”
That made Simon laugh to himself. Was it possible to get someone drunk enough that they’d brag about how many murders they committed for their master? He supposed it was possible, but much of that depended on the man’s temperament.
Simon looked for his quarry on the way in to meet with the duke, but did not spot him. Duke Brin didn’t make Simon wait this time. Instead, he dismissed the other men he’d been meeting with and said, “Well, what did your masters say?”
Simon wondered if he meant that generally, or knew enough about the Unspoken to use their titles. He didn’t ask that, though. Instead, he just said, “I think you know what they said,” as he handed the duke the sealed scroll.
The man broke the seal and read it at once, then set it aside and said, “You are correct. I expected nothing less, but you understand why I still had to be sure.”
“Of course,” Simon answered, resisting the urge to lecture him about how wrong it was to start a war to claim the throne, no matter the justification.
Duke Brin didn’t seem to care much for anyone else’s opinion. So, he dismissed Simon immediately and sent him with a servant to arrange for a late dinner.
The meal was leftovers of a larger feast he’d missed earlier, but it was still quite good, and better than he was used to. Still, Simon didn’t focus on the turkey or the gravy-drowned potatoes, and instead focused on his plan. Whenever one of the serving maids came by to see if he needed more, he asked her leading questions about the manor and its Lord.
“It’s a large estate,” she agreed, “But m’lord isn’t one for formal occasions any more than he’s forced to host them.”
The mundane details didn’t interest Simon, but he still filed them away. It wasn’t until he’d finished eating, and she was going to take him to the room that had been prepared for him, that the conversation finally paid off.
Simon was commenting about how dull it must be in a manor without parties when the woman laughed and said, “Well, there are always a few who liven things up. One of our gardeners can be quite the character, and Mr. Bryer, the duke’s aide, well, he tends to create all kinds of trouble when he’s not working on something more pressing.”
Simon followed up a bit on that, as delicately as he could, and found out that the man he was looking for was usually found in Duke Brin’s upstairs study until all hours of the night. She didn’t know what he got up to in there, but she knew it involved regularly restocking the brandy he loved so much.
Simon let the conversation move on, but vowed to pay the man a visit, and when he arrived at his room, he thanked the woman. Then he gave her half a minute to depart before going off in search of the man who had once strangled him to death.
Despite the size of the three-story building, it wasn’t hard to find his way. He simply told a footman he had a meeting in that room, and the man gave him exact directions. There, he found exactly who he was looking for, though not in the manner he’d expected.
Simon had thought that his dark-auraed target would be scheming, or perhaps engaging in debauchery of some sort, but instead, he was reading epic poetry aloud and drinking. Simon listened to him for a moment, but when he entered the room fully, the man stopped.
“Can I help you, Sir…” the duke’s man asked, giving him a puzzled look.
“Enis,” Simon answered. “And… I don’t know. I was just sleepless from my long ride, and was wandering the halls when I heard you just now.”
“Ah, sleeplessness. That one I understand all too well,” the man answered cheerily, obviously more than a touch inebriated. “For me, it's the dreams, you know?”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Simon nodded, even though he didn’t. He slept like a baby. Only those with tortured souls are filled with nightmares, he reflected as he studied the man’s dark aura.
Physically, he seemed harmless, but even if he hadn’t killed Simon once before, Simon would have known to be careful of him. He had one of the darkest souls Simon had ever had the misfortune to encounter, and even without his personal interest, he would have gone out of his way to strike the man down.
“For me, I find reading helps clear the mind,” Mr. Bryer said, gesturing to the nearest bookshelf of the duke’s well-appointed study. “Anything to take my mind off of other matters. I’ve worked my way through his works on history and moved on to poetry, but if you—”
“I’m a student of history myself,” Simon nodded, moving closer to the shelf to examine the titles without entirely taking his eyes off the shadowy figure.
“Oh, how rare, I heard that Whitecloaks were warriors, not scholars.”
Simon was tempted to explain the tongueless librarians that staffed the black library, even though he knew he wasn’t allowed to. However, before he could decide on his response, Mr. Bryer said, “What are your opinions on those pesky horse lords from the north? Why do they come south with such regularity?”
Because they need slaves to power their dark magics, Simon thought before giving an answer more rooted in intraclan rivalries.
He’d never actually had someone to talk to about the Murani. So, he talked at length about their capitals, leaving out only specifics about the Magi. He probably said too much, but the man he was talking to didn’t object or seem surprised. Instead, his smile only widened.
“Very good. You really are a reader. Few are the people who even know about those strange pyramids. Call me Willis,” the courtier said, pouring him a drink. Simon had the man’s attention, but he couldn’t decide how he felt about that.
Simon took it, and after a brief toast, he took a healthy swallow. Its smoothness and its warmth were hard not to appreciate, and the two continued their conversation about history, which wasn’t a topic he got the chance to talk about very often, despite the fact that he’d learned much of it through books and his own travels.
When Willis brought up a particular point about an Ionian myth, Simon explained that it wasn’t how the people of that country thought about it at all. Truthfully, he was enjoying it more than he ever expected; he was certainly enjoying the talk more than the brandy, despite himself.
Sometimes during these exchanges, Simon would get the man to tell an anecdote or two, but never very specifically, and if he was too blunt, then Mr. Bryer would quickly change the topic. The closest he ever came to the truth was when he said, “I handle things for the duke. Things important enough for him to worry about, but minor enough that a man of his importance shouldn’t have to concern himself with them.”
The words didn’t tell Simon much, but the way they made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end told him everything that he needed to know. The man was dangerous. Still, when he spoke with passion, he didn’t quite seem that way.
At one point, he began to quote an old Ionian poem about a hero who killed hundreds to save the throne. In a way, it reminded Simon of his last desperate battle to save his family in a timeline that no longer existed. That was when he decided to make his move.
“Those aren’t the words of a man who kills frequently,” Simon said, when Willis was done speaking.
“They aren’t, are they?” he agreed, pursing his lips. “I’d expect a Whitecloak like you to know a lot about that. Especially one with a recent wound he didn’t have the other day.”
Simon resisted the urge to touch his forehead and just said, “Bandits on the way back that wouldn’t take no for an answer. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Willis nodded along, and then after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, he said, “So is this where you tell me what this is really all about? This is about more than history. I can feel it.”
“It's about the history between us,” Simon said, standing nonchalantly to stretch. Mr. Bryer didn’t move, but Simon could see his posture straighten and his muscles tighten as he waited for the other shoe to drop.
“Between us? I don’t see how,” the other man answered, starting to rise himself. “I only saw you the once and—”
Simon didn’t wait for the excuse. Instead, he slammed Willis against the wall and drew the dagger on his waist. “You’re a sneak thief who garroted at least one man I know, and I want to know why.”
“I don’t know you!” the man cried out as loudly as he dared with Simon’s dagger inches from his eye. It was the truth, but it wasn’t any more relevant than the fact that he was at least a decade younger than he’d been when he’d strangled Simon to death.
“I know you, and that’s all that matters,” Simon growled as he held the man by the neck with the crook of his missing arm. “Now you can talk or scream while I teach you what a terrible thing it is to lose an eye.”
“Stop!” Mr. Bryer twisted in Simon’s grip, not to get free, but to try to escape the blade’s tip that was getting closer and closer. “Stop! I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. You don’t need to do this! We’re on the same side!”
“Your shadows are too dark for me to ever share them,” Simon answered, releasing him and pushing him to the floor of the sitting room. “But I’d love to know whose side it is you think that I’m on.”
“The knights,” he gasped, losing his cool completely as he crab walked backwards on hands and feet, never taking his eyes off Simon’s knife. “You’re a Whitecloak, aren’t you?”
“You say that like it’s supposed to mean something,” Simon answered, “But my order has nothing to do with toppling kingdoms. We hunt witches and…”
Simon’s words trailed off as Mr. Bryer let a high-pitched, crazed laugh slip from his mouth. “You really believe that, don’t you?” he asked, recovering a moment later.
Sometimes I don’t know what to believe, Simon thought. He didn’t say that, though. Instead, he kicked the man’s boot and said, “I’m running out of patience. Tell me what I want to know, or I'll force the words out of you.”
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