The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 27: A Queen of Wolves, Part 3

 The manor was small but intricately designed, its parlors and halls arranged in such a way that it took longer than either would have expected to find the private quarters, tucked behind a lush conservatory. A frail old man, clad in fine silks and wearing the badge of a steward, perched on a stool outside the doors. Bleary eyes opened at Ammas and Denisius's approach. 

"The wolf children are in mourning," he said in a raspy, sorrowful voice. His gaze roamed over them, something relieved in his expression. "They blame you and yours for this. I know who you are. They have fretted about you for days on end."

"You're not one of them?" Ammas said.

The old man shook his head. "No. But I've served here long enough that they trust me with their secrets. I know how to hold my tongue. I would have told them to speak with you. But it's too late now. They scented you, long before you arrived here. One of them returned from Ismene this very evening, saying the cursewright and a warrior were on their way here. They wanted to do battle. Wanted to tear you limb from limb for daring to set foot here. But -- " The old man shrugged.

"Will you let us in?" Ammas said, gripping his dagger tighter. He didn't think this old man could put up much of a fight, but he trusted nothing in this house.

"Be gentle, I beg of you, cursewright," the old man said, slipping off his stool and unlocking the oaken doors that led to the private apartments. "I left everything as I found it. They did not know what to do, so I told them I would bring priests of the Graces here to take care of things once they had safely fled. Only I will have to answer for this, I think." A dry, humorless laugh left the old man's throat in a cough. "I may ask you to end things for me more painlessly than that." 

The old steward opened the doors and ushered them into the apartments, past a sitting room, past a tastefully appointed music room, past a vibrantly colored artist's studio, and at last into the opulent master bedroom. Ammas suspected what he would find there, but the sight of it was no less awful.

Yvelle Nessir, Empress-Consort to Somilius Deyn III, the Emperor's chief assassin and the ritual wolf born from the blasphemous rite, hung from a rafter in the center of her bedchamber. Her face was livid, her hands pale. She had clad herself in a simple white shift, far humbler than the luxurious dresses she appeared in when attending some salon in the Chalcedony Palace. Denisius whispered a prayer to the Graces. From her color, Ammas supposed Yvelle had been dead perhaps an hour.

"Will you keep her -- wolf children from interrupting us?" Ammas said to the steward. "There are certain things I must do if her true children are to be saved from the wolf's blood, and I doubt the others here would approve."

The steward nodded grimly, his eyes taking a sorrowful cast as they gazed over the Empress-Consort's still form. "I will do what I can. They are in a state I've never seen before. I don't believe you're in much danger, but I'd advise you to hurry." Muttering a prayer, he turned and left the bedchamber.

"Will you bring her back alive? Let me speak to her?" Carala had asked Ammas this in the cells under Mourthia House. He had only told Denisius and Carala what Senrich had whispered to him. The others didn't need to know just yet, and he greatly feared Silenio's reaction, but after all that had happened he could not conceive of keeping it from Carala.

"I don't know what her mood will be," he had replied. "I do not understand why she has done the things she's done, why she would send Tacen to lure you into her blood. If she wanted such a thing, why wouldn't she do it herself?"

Carala's face had glistened with tears, but her voice had been steady. "For her protection and mine, I suppose. My father -- if he knew she had slipped his control -- I do not know, Ammas. Maybe he had somehow forced her into her human shape when she was in Talinara."