The Azimar Archives Book One- The Book of Death

Mothlenor

Mothlenor stared at the spot the Matriarch had occupied a moment ago. The spell he'd woven to bring her to the bath had not been an easy one, and the effort had left him tired, but seeing the annoyance and anger on her face when she saw him had made it worth it, as had the indistinct glimpses of her body beneath the water's surface. And when she realizes it wasn't a mere illusion... It was a shame he would miss that.

Still... what she had said about her girls being ravaged in the dungeons bothered him. He knew that it was customary for each woman of the Coven to teach and care for a group of younger members. He had seen as much himself when Nevara used to visit the castle, with a younger Nevina in tow. But Nevina herself had never brought her girls to the castle before. Why would she do so now?

Mothlenor dressed in silence, discarding the robe he'd worn and pulling on the more comfortable heavy silks he was accustomed to wearing. His visit with Nevina had not gone as planned, but he should have expected as much. He couldn't just put on his brother's clothes, bring her to his brother's private baths, and expect her to treat him as she would his brother. To her, he was only a murderer. But he could be more.

He left the heavy damp of the bath behind, exchanging a few short words with the knight waiting outside the door. His steps carried him to the foot of his tower, though his mind was still with Nevina. Her anger had been expected, even the tantrum and wine flinging could have been expected. She had asked him for Vyrisian wine, knowing he wouldn't supply it. That, too, could be expected of her. But still, there was something to Nevina that he could not place, could not decipher. Hers was an unfinished portrait. And he loathed half-finished work.

His thoughts were still on Nevina when a knock sounded on his tower door.

"Come in," Mothlenor growled, straightening to greet the visitor.

Ferrand opened the door, stepping over the threshold and into Mothlenor's study. He looked like a proud young buck, with his black King's Guard cloak and plumed helm. But even the strongest bucks can be brought down, Ferrand.

"You asked to see me, my Lord?"

"I just had a rather interesting visit with the Matriarch, Ferrand." Mothlenor watched his commander carefully for any reaction.

"Oh?" Ferrand's eyes narrowed at the mention of Nevina, but nothing more.

"You did not tell me that she had other members of the Coven with her," Mothlenor said slowly. He leaned back into his chair, eyes still on Ferrand.

"I didn't think it mattered."

"When you took them to the dungeons," Mothlenor began, feeling his anger rise, "how did you treat them?"

"About the same as the Matriarch." Ferrand gave a half hearted shrug. "I didn't think it mattered."

"They were only children, Ferrand. You should have let them go." Mothlenor snarled. "Instead, you beat and raped them. You murdered two of them."

"They were Coven children," Ferrand said quietly.

Mothlenor considered his words for a moment. "They could have been turned from the Coven. They could have been useful." Mothlenor frowned, glaring at Ferrand. "Not now."

"They were Coven children," Ferrand repeated, his voice smooth and low. "They would not have been turned."

Mothlenor sat in silence for a moment. Perhaps Ferrand was right. The idea of harming an innocent child was abhorrent. But an elf child would grow to be an elf, and a dwarf child would grow to be a dwarf.

"A Coven child would grow to be a Coven witch," Mothlenor murmured.

"My thoughts as well."

"Perhaps you did well after all." Mothlenor sighed. "The cuffs, did they work well?"

"They worked splendidly," Ferrand replied with a nod. "If possible, I'd like to request more to be made."

"More?"

"We only have a few sets left, after bringing in the Matriarch and her ilk. If we are to take the Coven—"

Mothlenor waved a hand to silence him. "They are easy enough to make. I'll see to it that you are equipped with more."

"Thank you, my Lord."

"And the other task I left to you? Have you found a suitable replacement?"

Ferrand smiled, his eyes glinting. The expression was strangely unnerving. "Yes, I have."