4. Benedetto
CHAPTER FOUR
BENEDETTO
3 Years After the Alley Attack
I approached the gates of the converted fortress. It crouched among recently scythed grasses and harshly pruned peach trees. Once it guarded the Deadbridge, but a few generations ago it had become an asylum for the madmen and women of Kalion. Its smoke-stained gray stone walls and barred windows reminded me of an above ground dungeon.
The verdigris crusted gate creaked open when I shoved it. The stench of wet stone and decay from the nearby Volanta River hung in the air as I crossed the lawn.
Nine months had passed since I last passed this gate. A twisting knot of dread and resignation settled in my gut as the gloomy shadow of the building swallowed me. Far afield, I hadn't been able to visit Francesco in months.
Visiting him was like drinking a bitter brew recommended for its healing properties. Short term misery in hope of a reward that rarely materialized. Rather like visiting the family home, which I’d avoided for the past three years.
Memories of my wife’s alluring scent, earthy and floral, like saffron, rose at the thought. Followed close by the fear in her large grey eyes. I shoved the thoughts aside, not without a flicker of regret. I had no ill feelings for her, but taking her innocence was the price demanded by my parents to continue my mission.
So I’d done it in a way to minimize the humiliation for both of us.
If fulfilling my duty as a husband, loveless though the union might be, granted me the money and resources I needed, I’d do it again. I’d done far worse than lay a quivering maiden in my time.
The funds released after I did my duty had gotten me to a port where I’d gotten clues as to where Moonshifter lived. Knowing the location of the sorcerer who shattered Francesco’s mind thirteen years ago meant I was a step closer to my goal.
Francesco healed or the sorcerer spitted on my blade.
Some days, I couldn’t remember which I wanted more.
I slammed the brass knocker hard against the door.
After the attendant manning the door scuttled off, I only had to wait a few minutes. Soon enough, the plump figure of the chief physician waddled into the small antechamber.
"Lord d'Alvarez," he greeted me, bowing his head. "We were not expecting you today. I trust your journey was pleasant?"
He reeked of camphor. While it wasn't an unpleasant scent in moderation, this was almost pungent enough to make my eyes tear.
"Pleasant enough," I said curtly. "Take me to my brother."
The physician motioned for me to follow. The narrow windows on the side of the hall by the river showed glimpses of sun on water until we reached the areas that housed those committed to care here. This was where the poor lived. Contrary to popular belief, the poor did run mad from time to time.
I paid, and paid well, for Francesco to have his room on an upper floor.
As we ascended the creaking wooden steps to the second floor, I steeled myself for the heartbreak of seeing Francesco. His was the third door in the hall, and at least this time, he wasn’t screaming. Drawing a deep breath, I stepped through the door to my brother's chamber.
The room was as I remembered it, clean and comfortable, though shadows of writing on the walls showed despite persistent scrubbings. On his bad days, Francesco used whatever came to hand to write on the walls, and strange glyphs and symbols lingered.
Soft lavender scented the air, mingling with the sweet aroma of fresh flowers adorning a nearby vase. Sunlight streamed through the barred window, casting a warm glow on the crisp, clean linens of Francesco's bed.
Yet even these small comforts couldn't ease the knot of misery twisting in my gut at his imprisonment here.
Francesco sat hunched in a chair secured to the floor, his long dark hair wild and unkempt, his sharp eyes now vacant and haunted. The angular face we both inherited from our father was gaunt on him, the cheekbones almost sharp enough to cut.
It was as if the madness consumed him mind and body.
"Francesco," I said, squatting next to him. I kept my hand on my blade; he’d tried to take it to harm himself in the past. "It's me, Benedetto. It’s good to see you again."
For a moment, he didn't react, lost in whatever hellish visions flitted through his haunted mind. Then, slowly, he focused on me, a flicker of recognition animating his features.
"B-Benedetto?" His voice sounded raspy from disuse. "Is it truly you? Not a memory?"
"Yes, I'm here." I clasped his hand. Thin, frail and bony. I’d ask what he was eating later. "I'm sorry I’ve been away so long."
Francesco leaned toward me, a feverish intensity overtaking his features. He gripped my hand with surprising strength, his nails digging into my skin.
"Listen to me," Francesco said, his hands shaking as he clenched them on mine with unexpected strength. "She's coming for you, brother. Moonshifter, she covets the dark moon’s curses, and Ruin walks with you, searching for the Lord of Nightmares..." His words tumbled out in a frantic stream.
I listened intently, trying to piece together any sense from the fragments of his shattered mind. "Slow down, Francesco. Is this Ruin the person or the action?"
"She is destroyer of kingdoms, the bringer of desolation." He shuddered. "Her journals told the secrets, the reasons for the gods' absence, the lost magics...when I read them, my eyes turned to black gold, and dropped out of my head, overcome by the echoes of her rage…"
I'd heard rumors when I came to the capitol, whispers of a rare tome surfacing in Legnali, a place I normally avoided. A friend had mentioned it in passing, that it had already been sold to an unknown buyer. I’d asked the shop’s name. Antiquities I wanted my answers quickly. "Who would know information on a recently surfaced rare book? A journal, supposedly once belonging to Ruin."
The barkeep's eyebrows shot up. He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "Dangerous thing to be asking about. Folks who stick their noses in that kind of collecting tend to end up dead or worse."
"I'll take my chances," I countered. "What have you heard?"
He shrugged, pouring me a measure of amber liquid, distilled by the wild tribes to the north. "Not much. Rumors, mostly. Gossip has it that the book was sold to a private collector, some rich bastard with a taste for the forbidden."
I took a sip of my drink, the alcohol burning a path down my throat. "Any idea who?"
"No names," the barkeep shook his head. "But I'd start with the merchants. They're the ones who deal in rare goods and have money to burn and want to climb the ladder for position. Though I’d be careful, if I were you. Some things are better left buried."
I smiled humorlessly. "That's where you're wrong, old friend. The truth needs to come out, no matter how deep it's buried. And I intend to dig until I find it."
Starting with a social climbing merchant wasn’t a bad idea. There were a lot of them, but I could start at the top. A book like that would cost a fortune.
I downed the rest of my drink in one swift gulp, the warmth spreading through my chest. I stood up from the bar, my gaze sweeping the room once more. Antonius, a journeyman for one of the richest merchants in Kalion caught my attention, and I made my way over to his table. He was engaged in a game of dice, his face flushed with the thrill of potential victory.
"Antonius," I said, my tone casual. "It's been a while."
He looked up, surprise flickering across his features before being replaced by a practiced smile. "Benedetto, what brings you to this fine establishment?"
I stared at the others. They shifted uncomfortably, then tossed the dice down and rose.
It was good to have a reputation for sudden lethal violence. People moved when you wanted them to.
Once we were alone at the table, I pulled out a chair and sat down, signaling to a passing serving girl for another drink. "Oh, you know, the usual. Drink, gamble, gather information. Speaking of which, I heard an interesting rumor about a certain tome."
Antonius's smile faltered briefly. "You know how rumors are, Bene. They're often more fiction than fact."
I leaned forward, my elbows resting on the table. "But every story has a grain of truth, doesn't it? I'm particularly interested in this one. A journal, supposedly written by Ruin herself."
He shifted in his seat, straightening his threadbare velvet sleeve with trembling fingers. "I may have heard something about that. But it's not the kind of thing one discusses openly."
I understood the unspoken request. I palmed several gold coins and dropped them behind his tankard, watching as Antonius's fingers closed around them. They vanished.
"Word is," he said, his voice lowered, "that that particular journal surfaced a few weeks ago. Caused quite a stir among certain circles. But it disappeared just as fast."
My heart raced, the thrill of the hunt coursing through my veins. "Disappeared to where?"
Antonius shrugged. "That's the thing. No one knows for sure. Some say it was bought by a collector, others claim it was stolen by a rival merchant. There are even whispers of sorcerer involvement, Soulrider or Moonshifter."
I sat back in my chair, tapping my fingers on the wooden table. Sorcerers. It always came back to them, didn't it? In specific, Moonshifter, the one who ruined my brother's life.
"And the name of this collector or merchant?" I asked, ignoring Antonius’ subtle cues that he didn’t want to answer.
Antonius hesitated, his gaze flicking down and away. "I don't have a name. But I know someone who might. A minor noble, Lord Orsini. He's known to have a fondness for rare and forbidden texts."
I smiled, the gesture sharp and predatory. "Lord Orsini. I'll have to pay him a visit, then."
I stood up, downing my drink in one swift motion. "Thank you, Antonius. You've been most helpful."
Antonius nodded, his expression a mix of relief and trepidation. "Some secrets are better left undisturbed, Bene."
I laughed, the sound harsh and humorless. "I'm afraid it's far too late for that, my man. Far too late."
I turned and made my way out of the tavern, my mind already plotting my next move. Lord Orsini. A name unfamiliar to me; he’d come onto Kalion’s social scene after I left. I’d gather information on the best way to pressure him.
The cool night breeze stroked my skin as I stepped out of the Angry Octopus, the sounds of laughter and thump of tankards fading behind me. I pulled my cloak tighter around my shoulders, heading for the rooms I rented when I was in town.
My mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, the information I had gleaned from Antonius swirling together with the fragmented ramblings of my brother. Ruin. Moonshifter. Whatever the Lord of Nightmares was. So many puzzle pieces, scattered and incomplete.
As I turned the corner, the atmosphere shifted. The street was unnaturally quiet, the shadows seeming to deepen and lengthen with each passing moment. Danger whispered to me sweetly.
I paused, my hand instinctively going to the hilt of my sword. A prickling sensation rose at the back of my neck as I scanned the street, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of danger. But there was nothing, only the eerie stillness and the soft whisper of the wind.
My senses were on high alert as I moved forward. Behind me then, the soft rustle of fabric, and the faintest scrape of a heel on stone behind me. I whirled around with my sword in hand. But there was no one there.
I stood there for a long moment. A flicker of movement to my right alerted me and I slid into the chill moment of battle. I tensed, my hand instinctively readying my blade. Three figures leapt from the darkness, daggers glinting in the moonlight.
I shifted my stance, drawing on the power I sourced from the starlight. The world blurred as I teleported, appearing behind one attacker. My sword flashed, and he crumpled.
Another blink, and I was beside the second man. He barely had time to register surprise before my blade found his throat.
The third hesitated, fear widening his eyes. I let the starlight shimmer around me, a silent threat. He turned and fled, boots pounding on the cobblestones.
I let him go. Two bodies would serve as message enough to whoever hired them.
Using the fallen man's tunic to wipe my blade clean, I surveyed the area. This was no random attack. Someone had sent these men, someone who knew my movements.
But who? And why now?
I nudged the corpse with my boot, rolling him onto his back, and rifled his clothing, finding little of interest until my fingers brushed against a folded piece of parchment tucked into his belt. I pulled it out, smoothing the creases with a frown.
The de Spoleto family crest stared back at me, the intricate design unmistakable even in the dim moonlight. I scoffed, crumpling the note in my fist. This was too obvious, too clumsy. No one would carry such a blatant mark of their employer.
Which meant someone was trying to frame Emilio de Spoleto. But who? And more importantly, why?
He’d remarried since his second wife died, another outlander with a large dowry. His money grubbing made his peers laugh at him, and he resented it fiercely. As a father-in-law, he left a great deal to be desired, but since he and my mother arranged the marriage, I’d have to live with him.
Unless I killed him. I’d entertained the thought a few times, generally when I had to interact with him.
I stood, casting a final glance down the street. The white stones embedded in the corners of the cobblestones caught the moonlight, casting a faint eerie glow across the scene. In the distance, I could hear the tolling of bells to mar the hour.
Pocketing the note, I headed for my rooms. The usual weariness of using my magic settled on me. I preferred not to use it, both because of the weariness and using my magic reminded me too much of the good days with Francesco. I’d send a message ahead to the wine merchant who rented me rooms when I visited Legnali. While there, I’d simply exercise care not to run into my mother, since my family was in residence there.
It was three or four days away by horse, so spending an extra day in Kalion to allow the messenger to arrive before me was in order. Provisioning would take that long, since I expected to continue travelling once I found my quarry.