To say that the room I am standing in right now is elegant would be a severe understatement—all along three sides of the walls are bookcases, shelved and nearly exploding with beautifully bound tomes; the marble floor is glided, with nary a speck of dust settling on the surface; the ceiling is high, approximately fifteen feet above, with a lavish chandelier illuminating the room like a cheerful old friend. The ruler of this room, seated behind an imposing desk, is the Captain of the Guard, who is currently scribbling notes onto a piece of paper.
As he writes, I observe him. For a brief moment, I wonder if Sir Eldric has ever been married. The sharp angles of his face are too harsh; the folds at the corners of his eyes are brutal. Evidently he had procured the decorations for the room, and while it is beautiful, it seems to be lacking something substantial—harmony. Everything is too neat, too precise, as though the keeping of orderliness in the room is a priority above everything else.
"Here." After he has finished writing, he passes the piece of paper to me. I briefly scan through it; they are the questions I have to ask Quinnian Allura on his behalf. "Do not lose it," he says warningly.
"I will not, good sir." I fold the parchment and tuck it away in the pocket of my breeches.
"The interrogation will be arranged for as soon as possible," says Sir Eldric. He snatches up a rag to wipe away the ink splattered all over his fingers.
I hesitate—should I continue to breach protocol, even in the name of duty? Finally, I decide to voice my thoughts: "Captain Eldric, if you would be so kind, I would like to gather information before I actually uh...ask"—interrogate seems too heavy a word—"Quinnian Allura regarding her role in the incident."
His face shows no visible disagreement, but his tone says otherwise. "Squire Rutherland, I am sure that you know your place here. This is an order, one that is not to be trifled with."
Inhaling and exhaling through my teeth, I try to rephrase my request. "Sir, I barely know Quinnian Allura. I think some background information would help me to be better prepared when facing her. In the long run, it might produce better results."
The captain's eyes glint dangerously; I manage to hold his stare. At last, he relents with an impatient shrug of his shoulders. "Bah. Do as you like. The Champions of Pst. Bronicus and their logic. Even if I don't give you permission to do so, you'll think yourself in the right and go ahead to do it anyway." Surprisingly, the corners of his lips quirk up a little. "Wouldn't you?"
"Thank you, sir." I bow towards him. The gesture is returned with a slight inclination of the head.
"You may take your leave now." Giving a terse nod, I wheel around and exit the room. Once I make sure the door is shut, I lean onto a nearby wall for support, as the results of my actions start to sink in. Indirectly, I have just told a captain on how the job should be done, and gotten away with it. I'm not sure if it's something to celebrate about, or if it's a disturbing fact, but I actually feel...smug. Proud of myself.
"Pst. Bronicus forgive me," I mutter to no one in particular. Straightening my back, I veer towards the right, towards the exit of the hallway. Servants and the like bow and curtsy as I pass them, their eyes reflecting how intimidated and awed they are by the way I hold my stance.
******
"She quickly disappears into her room after sundown" "She wears too many layers of robes to our taste" "She never comes out at night" The various information I managed to glean from the servants continue to ring in my head, even as I'm heading for the Galennus Workhouse. The words are jumbled up, confusing, yet they strike terror deep in my heart.
One particular story seems too detailed to be a falsehood. The maidservant who attends Quinnian Allura said that her mistress refuses to allow her to help in dressing. At first, she thought that it was bashfulness at revealing one's naked body to someone else, but as time went by, she began to suspect something else.
One day, while cleaning up Quinnian Allura's room, she found a vial of an unknown concoction tucked away in a secret drawer of the vanity table. Curious, the maidservant uncorked it. She claimed it smelt of death and roses—a sorcerer's brew. Of course, she considered taking it to the Galennus House to check its contents, but as doing so would risk her being accused for prying—though all the servants do it anyway—she put it back. Thus, a theory began to form in her mind that the Quinnian was a sorcerer in disguise, here to assassinate the king. Naturally, a ridiculous story, and it's one that certainly has a few exaggerations and elaborations. However, the way she spoke when I questioned her...she was actually trembling, licking her dry lips far too much.
She was afraid.
And of course, there's the story of the howls that come from her bedroom at night. Gossip circulated that the soldiers who patrolled the area at night would hear beast-like snarls and the heavy thrashing of furniture coming from inside the Quinnian's room. They also add that the snarls seem to be muffled with a cloth, while the thrashing seems hesitant, as though someone were holding it back.
There were other rumours of course, of how she is a Creature from the Forest of Mellitus, but these are the stories that imprint themselves so clearly into my mind. They are what make me afraid to see right now, which is why I'm going to see Gilbert instead. I need the distraction. Besides, I need to know what went on in the scrinaius anyway.
At least, that's the excuse I give myself for not hunting Quinnian Allura down.
Thankfully, Galennus Haelen grudgingly agrees to leave his workroom when I ask to be alone with his patient. When he and his assistant exit the place, I close the door a little too hard, the thud it sounds making me jump.
I stride over to Gilbert. He has dark circles lining his eyes, but otherwise he looks fine. He widens his eyes once he realises that it's me. "Why are you here?"
"To ask you why you collapsed in the scrinaius," I reply crisply, dragging a stool to sit on it.
"And your only reason for coming to visit me was to ask the exact cause of why I collapsed?" he squawks indignantly. Gilbert glares at me from his upright position on the sickbed. I raise a supercilious brow, not quite understanding the reason for his agitation.
"Yes."
He sighs. "There's tea in the kettle there," he says absently, gesturing towards a corner of the room. "Cups are on the worktable. Could you pour some out for us first? I'm thirsty."
A sharp retort hangs on the tip of my tongue. I still it, following Gilbert's instructions. Perhaps some tea would help to clear my muddle mind anyway. Once I hand over one teacup to him, cradling the other in my hand, I glare at him from my seat, willing him to give me the answers I want.
"And here I was, innocently thinking that you came to see me because something has melted that inhumanely cold heart of yours," he mutters darkly. I realise that I've become much better at reading others' body language—at least I know that Gilbert's irritation is really disappointment at me, for not expressing more concern towards an injured brother-in-arms. I thought that he should know better after knowing me for four years.
Yet I raise another supercilious brow.
"Fine," Gilbert snaps. "I'll tell you!"
Even in the dim lighting, I see Gilbert's face blanch slightly, the healthy red glow on his cheeks replaced with a pasty, oatmeal-like colour. His lips part; they don't move to form words. To occupy the emptiness, he takes a careful sip of his drink.
"Well?" I grow slightly impatient at his sudden silence.
He sucks in a deep breath, and expels it. Slowly. I grit my teeth, quelling a shout gurgling up my throat. At long last, he focuses his eyes on me, attempting to remain as cool and calm as possible when he delivers his verdict. "A vision."