21. Ignatius
twenty-one
Ignatius
Iggie shuffled in the center of the town hall, his nerves buzzing with anxious energy as his eyes roamed everywhere except the row of elevated figures seated in a line before him.
It had been bad enough facing their suspicion the last time he’d stood here.
Only Erys had treated him with anything close to kindness, and even if the enigmatic mage wasn’t behind the town’s troubles, Iggie still didn’t know what to make of him or his impossible offer to stay.
He chanced a glance at the leaders of Singer’s Rest only to immediately look away when he met Liliana’s glare. His fingers twitched at his side, though whether it was out of instinct to channel duskflame or the ill-advised urge to squeeze Alistair’s hand, he couldn’t say.
For a few hours there, things between them had felt almost like they had back in that harmonite cavern during the blizzard, their pretensions and worries stripped away to leave only them and their undeniable connection behind.
But even as he’d allowed himself to give in and let Alistair comfort him, he’d known the reprieve couldn’t last.
Sure enough, the instant they’d returned to town, he’d sensed Alistair’s barriers rising once more and had hastened to do the same. Not that he blamed the paladin for wanting to keep his distance. It was only natural when their relationship had a ticking clock attached.
Still, that recognition did little to ease the burgeoning knot in his stomach.
This was the problem with opening up to anyone—it left you weak.
Vulnerable. Better to keep the quiet company of the undead.
Although, to Alistair’s credit, he’d never abandoned Iggie even when that might have been the easier course.
He remained beside Iggie now, appearing far more stoically resolute before the council than Iggie could ever hope to be.
Drawing on Alistair’s example, Iggie forced himself to straighten his own back in an effort to steady himself. He had faced plenty of hatred from others. He could bear whatever vitriol they threw at him if it meant helping Alistair save more lives.
Maxwell, the town’s mayor, was the first to speak. He cleared his throat, his nasally voice tinted with irritation. “Given the unusual lateness of your summons, I presume you have something important to share with us, Sir Alistair?”
Iggie suppressed a wince. By the time they’d finished up at the ritual site and returned to town, night had fallen in earnest. No doubt at least some of the council members had been drawn from their beds for this meeting.
Iggie would have preferred to delay until morning, but Alistair had insisted that their news couldn’t wait.
As if sensing Iggie’s unease, Alistair stepped forward, repositioning in front of him as if to shield him from harm. Gratitude surged through Iggie at the gesture, unconscious or ingrained as it might have been.
“Indeed, we do.” Alistair’s voice boomed with all the authority of a Knight. “We believe we now have a more accurate picture of the events leading up to the summoning of the creature that threatens Singer’s Rest, as well as those responsible.”
“Summoning?” Iggie risked a glance at the council and found Erys leaning forward, his brow furrowed. “Does that mean our speculation this morning proved correct?”
Alistair shifted, the movement so slight that Iggie doubted the others would be able to tell. He’s nervous too, Iggie realized. He just hides it far better behind his official mask.
The thought bolstered his own flagging confidence enough to reply. “I’m afraid so, sir.”
Alistair shot him a surprised look, followed by an encouraging nod that sent an unfamiliar flash of pride rippling through him.
Turning back to the council, the paladin launched into an abbreviated explanation of what they’d learned about the botched ritual, from Matrim stealing Erys’ tome, to him convincing Julian and the other missing townsfolk to participate, to the tragic fates suffered by him, his accomplices, and, eventually, Julian himself.
Thinking again of what he’d witnessed in Julian’s memories twisted Iggie’s stomach in knots. The lovesick artisan had deserved a far better ending than the one he’d received, no matter what foolhardy decisions his misplaced trust in Matrim had driven him to make.
Is that what I’m doing now—allowing my feelings for someone I have no business being with cloud my judgment? I shouldn’t even be here.
Liliana harrumphed, snapping Iggie back to the present. She crossed her muscular arms over her tunic, her biceps bulging. “So, what you’re saying is that one of my artisans is behind everything that’s been happening to us? And he stole my harmonite crystals to do it?”
Her scowl deepened at Alistair’s nod. She redirected her glare on Iggie, who drew upon all his remaining courage not to retreat from her ire.
“And you’re certain this necromancer of yours is telling the truth? How can you be sure he didn’t plan this all out in advance, leading you to a ritual circle that he himself created?”
What? Iggie’s mouth fell open, shock rippling through him. They couldn’t possibly still believe he was behind this, could they? After everything he’d been doing to try to help?
Alistair shook his head. “I don’t think so, Mistress Liliana.
There are simply too many conflicting facts.
We found a song crystal with an almost identical signature to the creature’s at Matrim’s workstation and several corpses, including Matrim’s, at the ritual site.
” He held up the bundle of notes along with Erys’ tome.
“We also retrieved this, written I suspect in Matrim’s own hand. ”
At a gesture from Erys, Alistair approached and passed the bundle over. Erys leafed through the torn papers with a pensive frown before hefting the tome and flipping through it until he found a particular page. While he read, Brother Kelvin spoke into the silence.
“And what of Julian’s…remains? I trust they have been properly disposed of?”
Iggie tensed at the distaste in the priest’s voice. Alistair, however, appeared unfazed.
“Iggie sent him to rejoin the remainder of his undead. It seemed prudent to keep him reanimated in case we had further use of his services.”
Kelvin folded his hands on the table in front of him, his golden robes shimmering in the flickering torchlight. His lip curled. “While I admire your thriftiness, Sir Knight, I believe the Church would argue some tools are better left unused, no matter their convenience.”
Alistair was spared the need to reply by Erys snapping the spell book closed. All eyes fastened on him as he idly tapped its cover, appearing lost deep in thought.
“Well?” Liliana asked, her impatience winning out. “Did you find anything?”
“Oh my, yes,” Erys said absently.
When it was clear he didn’t intend to elaborate, Liliana slapped her palm against the table. “For Allaria’s sake then, spit it out! What did you find?”
Erys blinked, seeming to come back to himself. He let out a long breath. “I believe Sir Alistair has the right of it. This is indeed one of my tomes, and I recognize the writing as Matrim’s. He always had a messy hand—part of what made him unsuitable for spellcraft.”
Liliana redirected her glare from Iggie to the old wizard. “Are you in the habit of leaving dangerous spells lying around for anyone to steal?”
“Not generally, no,” Erys said without a trace of sarcasm.
His earnestness only seemed to stoke Liliana’s anger.
“I have no idea how Matrim knew of this particular book, much less how he retrieved it without my knowledge. The spells it contains are not to be taken lightly, even by an experienced practitioner. With Matrim’s level of skill, it’s little wonder that the ritual became corrupted.
In fact, we’re lucky he didn’t cause more damage. ”
Liliana growled, her jaw tightening, and Maxwell cleared his throat.
“Let’s everyone just take a moment to calm down,” he said, waving his hands in what was probably meant to be a placating gesture. “What we need right now isn’t to leverage blame but to decide how best to approach this crisis now that we know what we’re dealing with.”
Any momentary faith Iggie had in Maxwell’s sudden leadership withered when the mayor paused, his eyes darting about the chamber. “Er, I’m open to suggestions.”
Brother Kelvin’s face twitched with what might have been barely concealed scorn as he turned toward Erys. “If this creature was summoned, can you devise a way to unsummon it?”
Erys shook his head. “What we are dealing with here is essentially a harmonite golem—one forged by voidflame and made only more potent by the lives sacrificed in its creation. While I could conceivably devise a counter-ritual, I fear we don’t have the time.”
The priest’s calculating gaze narrowed. “What are you not telling us?”
Erys shuffled the papers in front of him.
When he spoke, his tone was grave. “When someone creates a golem, they imbue it with an inherent purpose. Based on Matrim’s notes and Alistair’s testimony, I surmise that Matrim had intended this golem as a grand demonstration of his power, to be unveiled to us during Dawncoming.
Without Matrim here to modify its orders, the golem will do its best to enact its final commands. ”
“Which means?” Liliana demanded. “Speak plainly, mage.”
“Which means that it will come here, to Singer’s Rest, on Dawncoming. And given its corrupted nature and apparent proclivity for violence, I don’t expect it to be a pleasant meeting.”
Silence hung heavy over the room as Erys’ words sank in, leaving Iggie reeling. After witnessing the battle at the tower and reliving Julian’s horror, he already loathed knowing that the golem prowled the nearby wilderness. But to learn that it would come here, and soon…
“But…but Dawncoming is only two days away!” Maxwell sputtered, his eyes widening in something close to panic. “Surely, there is something you can do?”