“You there! Stephen,” she called out the door, “run and fetch the sheriff. Then tell everyone in this castle to assemble in the Great Hall. Do you understand? Everyone!” Her voice was angry, violent.
Sherwood picked up a brass candle tray and bent to sweep up as much of the pigment as he could. “I don’t understand why anyone would do this.” His voice was shaking, his words slurring. He didn’t care. “Stealing is understandable, but—I mean—this is worth a lot of money. Why destroy it? What have I done?”
“I’ll have it replaced,” Lady Dulgath said.
“You can’t. The time, the cost—it’s…” He actually didn’t know how much. Thinking about the totality of the loss was like asking how high was up.
“Doesn’t matter. You are my guest. I consider it my failure. I’m responsible, and I’ll make it right again.” She took a step, and glass crunched under her shoe. She froze and looked around, frightened. “The painting, is it—” She saw the covered square of canvas resting beside the leg of the desk, and her shoulders relaxed. “They didn’t touch it?”
“Wasn’t here. I took it to my room last night.”
She offered him an encouraging smile. “Well, that’s something, isn’t it?”
“Yes—that’s something.”
She continued to stare at the painting. He couldn’t stop her from looking at it. All she had to do was take two steps and lift the cover. He was certain she would, but a moment later Sheriff Knox and Chamberlain Wells entered.
“I want to know who did this,” Lady Dulgath demanded.
Knox took a moment to look around thoughtfully, finally focusing on the door. “That might be difficult.”
“Why is that?”
“No lock. Anyone can get in here.”
“Could be anyone in the castle then,” Wells said.
“Not just the castle,” Knox corrected. “Virtually anyone could have come in last night. I pulled Throm and Frewin from the gate to guard your bedroom door. We were shorthanded on the wall. You really need to let me recruit more guards. Burying your head in the sand must stop. Your life is in danger.”
“Whoever did this wasn’t trying to kill me.”
“But someone is.”
“Dulgath doesn’t need a standing army. This is a close community, and I won’t allow you—or anyone else—to destroy that.”
“I’m just asking for a few more guards—to protect you!”
“I don’t need protection. I need to know who did this. Find out. Go!” She turned and faced the chamberlain. “I’ve ordered the staff to be gathered. See to it that they are…everyone. I’ll speak to them shortly. I want this solved, and I want it solved today.”
“As you wish, milady.”
She closed the door after they left and crossed the room to Sherwood, who was still struggling to gather as much pigment as he could. She found an empty cup, a decorative stein from a high shelf, and helped him. “I’m so very sorry this happened, Sherwood.”
He paused and looked up. “You know my name.”
“Of course I do.”
“You’ve never said it before.”
She shrugged. “Is that significant?”
“To me it is.”
She looked at him, curious, forehead furrowed, those elegant brows creeping closer together. He could see it again, that vision through her eyes; an image beyond the window, a hazy shadow like someone peering out through frosted glass.
Sherwood had struggled his whole life to see beyond the veil that people hung over themselves. They wore clothes to hide their truths: the bravado of cowards, the humility of the courageous, the indifference of caretakers, and the sins of the pious. He scraped back veneers to find bone. These were the buried secrets that unlocked the sincerity of his work. Understanding—seeing—what others couldn’t, or refused to, allowed Sherwood to put into paint the same underlying honesty that made his portraits so lifelike. Everyone kept secrets; most simple and easy to spot.
Wells was practically naked. The man was a glutton. Knox was a barely restrained animal at heart. Fawkes was a different matter. Something cold dwelled within his chest and throbbed rather than beat. Sherwood wouldn’t trust Fawkes to piss every day.
Nysa Dulgath was nothing like them, or any woman he had ever seen. She had a secret, to be sure, but she’d buried it deeper than he thought possible, beneath the dirt, below gravel, under shale and heavy rock. All he ever saw were these fleeting glimpses of shadows peeking out the windows of her eyes, little cupped hands pressed against the glass, a lonely soul trapped in an empty house.
Seeing how she looked at him then, that concern in her face, made the clouds part. He stood in the eye of the hurricane. The world blew around him dark and terrible, but he was safe. He was with her under a single shaft of sunlight, and everything was perfect.
The religious spoke of divine moments of grace when whatever gods they worshiped paused from their daily routine to stretch out a finger and touch them. Lives were changed, prophets made, and nations shifted when that happened. Sherwood felt touched at that moment, rocked to his core and then some. For a time, he thought he might be falling in love with Nysa Dulgath, but love was no longer a word large enough to encompass everything he felt. Mothers loved their children. Husbands loved wives. What Sherwood felt was more akin to worship. A prophet was born among the broken glass and scattered pigment, and while nations didn’t tremble, they should have.
Chapter Nine
Theft of Swords
Hadrian awoke to the song of birds and a cool breeze. A window was open, the only movement the thin curtains rippling with the wind. He lay on something soft, a pillow beneath his head. Somewhere distant, he heard muffled clinks of glasses, voices, laughter, and the drag of chairs on a wooden floor.
Sounds like a tavern.
The thought drifted in with the gentle breeze and whistling whoops and chortles of a thrush—then he remembered.
He sat up, expecting a nasty headache, something similar to the morning after a drunken pass out. He had figured his head would be throbbing, his eyes dry and reluctant to shift. Surprisingly, he felt okay, good even. His mouth might have been the last resting place for a deceased chipmunk, but other than that he was fine.
Hadrian had no idea where he was. Along with his morning-after apprehension, he had expected to open his eyes on a different scene—if he ever managed to open them again.
He was indeed on a bed, a nice bed: thick mattress, soft blanket, linen sheets, feather pillow, no stains. The rest of the room was just as charming. Big, dark-wood beams supported the ceiling. A rug stretched across the floor. Drapes framed a solitary window, where a bright light shone on a table and an upholstered chair. In the chair sat a familiar shadow.
“They drugged me,” Hadrian said. “She—she drugged me.”
“I know,” Royce replied. He was staring out the window, looking down.
Hadrian began taking inventory with his hands, no pain, cuts, or bruises. No tar or feathers. He was in his clothes, shoes still on, cloak missing. No, not missing, it lay across the foot of the bed.
He looked at his hands and remembered fumbling with a key. “Did I—did I manage to lock the door?”
“Yes, you did.” Royce threw his booted feet on the table. “I had to pick it to get you out.” He pushed back his hood, revealing a confused expression.
“What?”
Royce shrugged.
“You’re impressed I did that, aren’t you? That I thought to lock myself in.”
“Be more impressed if you hadn’t allowed a pretty girl to drug you.”
“A pretty girl…how’d you know? And how did you find me?” Hadrian stood up, continuing to test himself, but his balance was fine. Whatever she’d given him was friendlier than rye whiskey.
Royce didn’t answer.
Do you understand the meaning of the word thorough? Hadrian’s stomach sank.
“Oh, Royce, you didn’t…”
Royce cocked an eyebrow. He didn’t say anything for a moment, and his sight shifted to the floor in thought. Once more, he displayed a puzzled expression. He shook his head. “No. I didn’t.”