Chapter Twelve Elvine
CHAPTER TWELVE
Elvine
Two full days after their council in the tower of Sister Iron, Thera still refused to countenance Elvine’s departure.
The delay grated on her nerves but did offer the chance for a more thorough investigation of Lore’s archive.
Sadly, thorough rummaging of the traitor queen’s library, and every other store of documents in the Verungyr, had yielded nothing of interest. There was, however, another as yet untapped source of information.
Within hours of Thera’s arrival, Lynnea Trahleyl had overseen the rounding up of Lore’s surviving servants, consigning them to the Verungyr’s dungeon.
Most struck Elvine as dull-witted and instinctively servile.
People compelled by habit or stupidity to obey any figure who happened to hold power.
But there were others, just a handful known to possess useful information.
They were also the least likely to talk.
“Volkrath, the lot of them,” Gruinskard opined.
The former Tielwald hadn’t been appointed any official role in Elvine’s mission, but that didn’t prevent him taking a keen interest. He sat in the wide chair once occupied by the man he had murdered in this very dungeon.
Elvine still remembered the awful grinding noise Gruinskard’s knife made when he thrust it into Hulnath’s skull.
She could even make out the bloodstains on the flagstones where he had fallen.
An unnecessary act, in her view, which appeared to arouse not the slightest regret in the old man who sat in his victim’s chair tinkering with that false hand of his.
“They won’t talk,” he added. “Not without some special encouragement. Perhaps not even then.”
Elvine ignored him and picked up the list of names compiled by Lynnea. They were inscribed in a clumsy but legible hand complete with the role played by each servant. The various cooks and cleaners were of little interest, but one bore the title of “scribe”.
“There are former employees of mine in the town skilled in such things,” Gruinskard went on. “Assuming you would prefer not to do it yourself. Not sure the queen would approve, but I’ll make solemn promise not to tell her.”
“The locksmith didn’t talk either,” Elvine reminded him, referring to the Volkrath agent he had uncovered in Olversahl. “It didn’t matter.” Turning to a guard, she said, “Open number six, please.”
The scribe was a thin woman somewhere north of her fortieth summer.
Upon peering at her through the slat in the cell door, Elvine discerned an air of inexpressive self-control which faltered when the guard rattled the key in the lock.
The prisoner recovered quickly, banishing the twitch from her mouth and remaining seated on a small stool, hands clasped in her lap.
Elvine offered no greeting as she entered, instead planting the butt of the spear on the floor with a loud thump.
The scribe shuddered briefly but said nothing, Elvine noting how she strove to keep her gaze averted from the weapon.
Trying to shield her mind, the spirit within the weapon advised. But isn’t so skilled at it as the last one. She expects to be tortured, so fear dominates… and a repeating litany of names. People she killed, I think. It’s a long list. You’ll need to calm her if you want more.
“Your name is Eylka,” Elvine said. “Scribe to Sister Lore.”
The woman said nothing, though the knuckles of her tightly clasped hands grew whiter.
“Then we have something in common,” Elvine went on.
“For I too, in my shame, once scribed for her. Although, I suppose you know that.” She paused, frowning in a mock display of recollection.
“It occurs to me that I am familiar with your work. The copies of Lore’s correspondence would have been penned by you, would they not?
It was a decent hand, lacking the elegance of mine, of course. ”
Although the scribe’s face betrayed nothing, she couldn’t shield her emotions from the spear. She didn’t like that, the spirit observed with a note of amusement. But not so much as to break her control, or banish her fear.
Elvine called for a guard to bring her a stool, the brief interval allowing Gruinskard to linger in the open doorway. “I told you she wouldn’t talk,” he said. “Perhaps you should return in a day or two, Spear Maiden. I can assure you her tongue will be loosened then.”
Perching on her stool, Elvine saw the scribe’s jaw clench and a single tear course down her cheek, although she continued to stare straight ahead.
“Close the door,” Elvine told Gruinskard. The curt instruction brought an ominous furrow to his aged brow, but he complied swiftly, the door slamming with a loud echo.
“I believe some plain speaking is in order,” Elvine told the scribe. “If you don’t want me to hand you over to the Tielwald, I strongly suggest you adopt a more forthcoming attitude.”
She saw the first crack in the woman’s armour then, nostrils flaring as she caged a sob, tears flowing more freely now.
Her distress was an ugly thing to watch, casting Elvine’s mind back to her imprisonment in the Rent, and the dark desire she had seen on the face of her captor.
Have I become another Ilvar now? she wondered, finding she had to stiffen her resolve against the welling tide of shame.
So many had died. So many fallen in defence of Olversahl.
So many slaughtered in the Outer Isles. So many brave souls hacked or drowned winning Thera’s victories.
Set against it all, Elvine’s shame felt like the petty indulgence of a naive child.
“She left you here,” Elvine continued, staring hard into the scribe’s wet eyes.
“She returned to the Verungyr, but only briefly, and thought nothing of abandoning those who served her. I do wonder why. Could it be that she had something more important to do? Was there, perhaps, something more worthy of rescue?”
Eylka sagged, sobbing now, her face in her hands. “I…” she began, voice muffled until she raised her gaze to meet Elvine’s. “I was… misled.”
Lie, the spear chimed in. Spurred by terror. She’s as much a believer in her murderous creed as she was when you opened that door. But her fear overcomes her faith. I sense you could pull truth from this one, if you can strike the right bargain.
“In case you haven’t heard of me,” Elvine said, “my name is Elvine Jurest, although I am often called the Spear Maiden.” Eylka’s frantic nod was ample confirmation that she had, indeed, heard much of the Spear Maiden.
“As such,” Elvine went on, “I have the ear of the queen. Should you answer my questions honestly, and know I will hear any lie you speak, I will prevail upon the queen to spare your life and grant the mercy of exile. Or, if you prefer, you can face the fate of all traitors.” She chose not to share the news that Thera had now banned use of the Crimson Hawk in favour of the less gruesome fate of simple hanging.
“You…” The scribe snorted mucous and swallowed hard. “You give me your word on this, Spear Maiden? In the name of the Altvar?”
“I do.” A true statement, made with the knowledge that Elvine had no notion if the queen would agree to mere exile for a murderous Volkrath agent.
She had been unstinting in her justice so far, albeit disinclined to prolonged torment.
“In Ulthnir’s name, and in the name of his daughter Vysestra.
” Elvine smiled, trying to imbue the expression with warm reassurance.
“She who watches over the scribes and scholars of this world.”
Eylka took a long ragged breath before palming the tears and snot from her face. “Ask then, and know that I promise truth.”
“It is my belief that Lore came here to secure a book,” Elvine said. “The Map of Veils. You know of it?”
The scribe bobbed her head. “It was kept in her private archive, the one secreted in the tunnels beneath her tower. Sometimes I would be called there. The quee—” Eylka paused to swallow the potentially dangerous word.
“Lore would work there alone for many hours, poring over various books, but none so much as The Map of Veils.”
“Have you read it?”
Eylka shook her head. “It was inscribed in Ishtan, of which I have only a small grasp. I only know the title because I glimpsed it and translated it later.”
Elvine raised an eyebrow. “Without her knowledge?”
“My allegiance is… was to the Volkrath, not Lore. Although she was our leader in this realm, the creed of the Volkrath stands above one soul.” A modicum of ardency had crept into the woman’s speech.
It disappeared quickly, the treacherous scribe coughing and speaking on, “I was summoned to transcribe the notes she would make during her studies. She made more when reading The Map of Veils than any other.”
“Do you have copies of your transcriptions?”
“I regret I do not, Spear Maiden. She insisted they remain in the archive.”
“But you recall the contents?”
“They mostly related to obscure Ishtan phrases that required more detailed translation. References to places or customs she was unfamiliar with, and so on. In all, my transcriptions couldn’t have amounted to more than a few hundred words.
But there was one passage, longer than the others.
It was a retold fable, one especially curious because it was Ascarlian rather than Ishtan. ”
“An Ascarlian fable in an Ishtan text?” Elvine frowned. In her experience Ishtan scholars tended to shun Ascarlian history, mostly out of ignorance since there were many in that empire who had never heard of this distant realm. “Did you recognise it?”
“I did. The tale of Veylorn. I assume you know it too.”
Elvine was indeed familiar with the story, but the spear was not. Tell me, she said, the request accompanied by a sense of gentle encouragement. A good story is always to be cherished.