Chapter 8
Seriv informed me that Trikao Armenta would be found at a sotbar known as the Crooked Horn—another place much favored by the Armentas, he said.
I started off for it, and despite my many worries, I could not help but find the town of Lacanthim charming: the orbed, fretvine shops and homes all sat piled up along the cobblestone lanes, with little streamers of smoke uncoiling from the rooftops as countless suppers were prepared.
Great mai-lanterns hung from posts along the streets, and in the soft rain they gained a gauzy, shimmering halo of pale sapphire.
A Tala evening, a Tala rain. I had not seen such a thing in many months. I felt an urge to reach out, snatch up a raindrop, and taste it, as if reunited with some fragment of my very soul. I continued on.
I found Trikao Armenta sitting alone at a small table in the corner of the inn known as the Crooked Horn, nursing a tiny thimble of wine.
It would have been a comical sight, to see such a huge man sipping from such a small vessel, had it not been for his face: I had never seen a more somber creature than he, sitting with his head bent, his snowy beard brushing his collar.
He brightened slightly when he saw me and tried to force a bit of wine upon me, but I abstained, claiming my duties.
His brightness dimmed when I asked of the other deaths of the Armentas.
“Why?” he said. “What’s this to do with Castus?”
“We don’t know, sir,” I said. “We’ve no idea if it has anything to do with Castus. But I feel obliged to ask of them, as every person we speak to brings them up.”
He gazed at me for a long while. “You aren’t beginning to believe it—are you?”
“Believe…?”
“In the curse. In this mad foolishness.” He leaned forward, his chair creaking under his weight. “I tell you, my family has done nothing to invite this pain.”
“Sir—”
“We do not deserve what has happened to us! Nor do we deserve to have the custodi and the Iudex digging about in our tragedies, just like all the gossip-mongers of the canton attempt every day!”
“I don’t intend to cause pain, sir. But we still don’t understand the motivation for the murder. Castus appears to have been genuinely in love with Zansay. We only seek to understand him more.”
“You will find no understanding in it!” he snapped.
“I don’t, and I was there! I…” His face grew ashen.
“I still can’t comprehend it. I showered those children with gifts, from childhood to adults.
I do not know why two of them sought relief from life itself, nor can I explain why fate took the third.
I still feel a great emptiness they left behind in me.
” He looked at me pleadingly. “Please do not go opening all the old wounds of my kin, Signum. We have suffered enough and shall surely suffer more.”
I paused to calculate how to proceed. I could tell him now, of course, that we did not think those deaths were the whims of ill fate, that someone had somehow engineered them, much as a drover might herd a cow into its paddock.
But this, I knew, would have been unwise: Ana had ordered me to maintain secrecy for a reason.
I studied Trikao’s face, weary yet resilient. He certainly would not grant us an audience with his sister—not after I’d already raised his hackles. On to his son, then.
“I understand, sir,” I said. “May I still speak to your son, however?”
He relaxed. “Of course. Ippeas is close to Castus, as is his betrothed. I did as you asked and summoned them. He should arrive soon, though his bride will surely be here first, though—she is a skilled rider. She…” He stopped to look over my shoulder. “Ah! She comes now!”
He nodded down the lane behind me. I turned to look.
—
To watch the girl riding down the lane to us was akin to glimpsing a fable of some storied champion bringing word of great threat.
She did not merely sit in the destrier’s saddle, nor hold its reins, nor simply guide the beast: rather, the act of girl and steed were one, her long, lean body shifting with the pounding of the creature’s shimmering legs.
Her black hair rippled behind her like a banner as they galloped, her dark eyes fierce and her shoulders tucked.
The sight of her movement was so poised and immaculate, it made one imagine that if she ran out of land to ride upon, she might ride into the sky itself.
Despite her effortless grace, she was dressed as any drover, with high leather boots and a light leather shirt to shield her arms. A knife was sheathed at her side, and a lance was sheathed in the saddle on the other.
Her face was fixed in worry as her destrier hurtled down the lane to us, its flanks muddied, its breath hot and fast. She dismounted in a flash, reined her steed to the post, and hurried over, her bright eyes fixed on Trikao.
“I’ve heard the news, Grandfather,” she said breathlessly. “It can’t all be true, can it? It…it really can’t be…”
I did not introduce myself as we stood to greet her. In fact, I said nothing. I simply gazed into her face, open-mouthed. Not because it was a beautiful face—though it was a very beautiful face, truly—but because it was a face I recognized.
For it was almost my own, after all, in so many subtle ways.
“The worst is true, yes,” said Trikao to her. “This fellow is from the Iudex and seeks to understand it all. I hope you can help him, for I’ve few answers.”
The girl turned to look at me. She did a double take and froze, stunned and open-mouthed just as I was.
“I…what?” she said quietly. “Wait! No, I…”
I should have known, I thought. For Trikao Armenta himself had told me I looked familiar, so much so he’d thought we’d met before. And now, here she was.
“D…Din?” said the girl, shocked. “Din, is…is that you?”
“Eh?” said Trikao, puzzled.
I swallowed. My mouth was like sand, my throat a cauldron.
“Fotia?” I said uncertainly.
There was a long silence.
My sister stared at me, then pressed a hand to her face. “What are you doing here, Din?” she asked. “What in hell are you doing here?”