Chapter Forty-Nine Abel
I went to open for breakfast, but I found cardinal robes in a pile of dust on my patio. I’ve heard my case is only one of many instances, but I must insist you investigate my crime scene first. I have a restaurant to run!
Chapter Forty-Nine
Abel
Doves huddle in the rafters of Varsonne’s aviary post. The one I pick to carry a message squawks while I tie the strip of paper to its leg.
“Give it a rest. Warmer days are ahead of you— Ouch!” I hiss, shaking out my pecked hand. The bird flies through the open window as if resentful.
It is a summons—for the Slayers Guild.
The message provides notice of a cure—for lack of a better term—signed not only by me but also by Marshal Abigail Payen and Lyle Meteku.
As far as Marshal Payen could find out upon our return, every archivist in Varsonne has turned into dust. The cardinals too.
All that’s left of our belief system are the slayers.
I pray a marshal’s endorsement is enough to bring them here in two weeks’ time.
I exit the aviary into heavy snowfall that Lucy immediately shakes off. Martial law has been lifted. The city remains sleepy under a blanket of white, but freshly shoveled paths prove that no one is afraid to brave the cold.
Claire is the exception. She won’t leave the inn.
The impulse to confide in my friend leads me to Madame Afi’s hillside home. Just as I raise my fist to knock on the door, it opens. Lyle looks up from the pile of dirt he was about to sweep outside.
“Oh. It’s you,” he says, stepping aside. “Come in.”
“Thanks. I— Lucy, no!”
Lucy slips past me in a straight line for the coals crackling under the stove. Mercifully, Lyle rescues his teapot from the impact of her pounce. It whistles weakly but steams enough for him to shrug off the rest of the wait time.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I would’ve left Lucy with Claire, but she’s been clingy since I almost died.”
“Cheers to breaking through the favoritism,” he laughs. “Tea? I’ve got chamomile.”
“You hate chamomile tea.”
“I found the leaves when I cleaned out Ma’s cabinets yesterday.” He points to a small basket on the kitchen counter, stuffed with Madame Afi’s favorite tea set. “I miss that disgusting smell.”
“Then let’s pour ourselves a cup.”
While our tea steeps, Lucy emerges from the coals. Soot covers her muzzle. She gekkers in excitement, deciding that this is the correct time to sprint across the clean floorboards and bite the bristles of Lyle’s broom.
“Bad Lucy,” Lyle scolds. He pulls a strip of venison from his back pocket, then tosses it to her. She drags it beneath the dining table.
“I’ll clean up after her,” I sigh.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“If there’s anything I can do for you—”
“I know.” Lyle smiles ruefully. “I’ll ask. Thank you.”
The scent of chamomile curls into the air between us, the ghost of his mother with it.
The smell convinces me she’s here, sorting through her crafting materials.
In a different life, there’d be no dragon curse.
Just friends and family spending time together in Madame Afi’s atelier.
She’d smack sweets out of Micah’s sneaky hands but save them as rewards for later, once he did his apprentice chores.
“Drink on three?” Lyle offers.
I nod. “One.”
“Two.”
“Three,” we say together. Simultaneously, we each take a large mouthful.
Lyle spits his back into the cup.
“Blegh.” He wipes his tongue on the inside of his tunic. “How did you ever drink that?”
I take another sip. “With good etiquette.”
“On second thought”—he tosses me a rag, which I catch one-handed—“take some of that fancy etiquette and help me clean up. I’m putting this house on the market.”
I get to work without complaint. “I assumed you’d want to keep the house now that your place in Ravinfort is gone.”
“I thought about staying for a while to be near Ma’s and Pa’s graves. But I don’t think she’d rest well if that were the only reason I cling to this place.”
I nod, thinking back to the cautious way he handled Madame Afi’s ashes during the journey back down the mountain.
By the time we reached Varsonne, his eyes were bloodshot and lined with grief.
I had to hold him upright while he spread her remains in the soil before the tombstone he’d purchased to bury her head.
“I think you’re right to leave,” I say. A stubborn smudge clings to the countertop. “Where will you go?”
“Jardincourt, probably. Lots of rich people with horses that need shoes.”
I smile. “Like your father.”
“Before he switched to moonmetal.”
His family’s lives could’ve gone very differently had his parents not made the choice to become first-generation outfitters. At the same time, without Lyle, the dragon curse would’ve continued. It’s a hard pill to swallow.
“I’ll miss her,” I admit.
“Me too.” He spits into the teacup again. “But not that.”
In the manner of Lyle Meteku, even in his bitterness, he sounds optimistic—and maybe he truly is.
At the same time, neither of us can start over until we make our case to the Slayers Guild.
“What if they want to execute Claire?” I ask. The countertop squeaks under my scrubbing. “If they refuse to trust our evidence, they’ll never let her go free, not even into my custody. They’ve wanted to revoke my badge for months. This time they’ll do it.”
“Abel. Breathe.”
I used to attribute every stroke of luck—good and bad—to a reflection of my moral compass. In truth, there was no greater meaning to anything, owls and fawnas included. I am solely responsible for my life. If I want the Slayers Guild to trust my word, I need to be worth listening to.
“Claire chose to trust you when she agreed to guide us up the mountain. The Guild will come around too,” Lyle says. “And if they don’t, I suspect you know a certain someone they have to obey.”
Lyle raises a conspiratorial eyebrow. Realization takes a second, but when it hits me, I smack my forehead.
I’ve gotten so wrapped up in my poor reputation with the Guild that I forgot the powers I did appeal to.
The royal family wants Florent safer, to the point that they granted me a future audience despite my taboos.
If anyone can make slayers lay down their swords, it’s the ones who govern the people.
I gulp the remaining tea in one swallow, then pull him into a hug with a slap on his back. “Lyle, you’re brilliant. Thank you.”
“Spread the word, will you? I need a new apprenticeship!”
Lucy follows me as I rush out the door and nearly slip in the snow on my way to the aviary. In the hours before dark, I send one more dove—and pray to no god in particular that a response arrives in time.