Bracken looked up then, and his eyes were utterly sane now. The new Master Renson circled back around and picked up a curling parchment off the desk.
“I nearly gave up. I nearly believed that I didn’t know my father as well as I’d thought. But it’s when you stop looking that the answers come to you. Three days ago, I started to feel better, more like myself. I gave up any mad thoughts of attempting to end your life and instead decided to used my solitude to read. The first tome I lifted was a collection of poems compiled by Eveningstar. The First Man had traveled here, to Erznia, during one of the first harvest festivals. He wrote down every word of every poem spoken by the townsfolk that night. Do you remember hearing stories of that?”
“I was there. Young, but there.”
“That’s right,” said Bracken with a shrug. “I tend to forget that you are much older than you appear. Well, Father was there too, and Eveningstar handed him the tome when he was finished, as a gift.”
“I remember that.”
“It was Father’s favorite book. He would often sit for hours and pour over every verse of all two hundred and seventy couplets. He loved poetry, even though his own was rather…lackluster.” He shook his head. “I’m getting distracted. That night three days ago…I came to the library. I’d begun to hate my father, to believe him a liar and a hypocrite, and that’s why I wanted that tome. I wanted to remember who he really was, remember the man who raised me and taught me how to live with decency and honor. But when I opened the cover, I found something strange inside. I found this.…”
Bracken extended the parchment, which Vulfram hesitantly took. The paper was thin yet sturdy, the tender of vintage used for royal documents. It was face down, and he could plainly see the waxen seal, split in half, that decorated the top and bottom edges. He folded the parchment over and connected the two halves, revealing the image of a snake wrapped around a lion, the sigil of House Crestwell.
Vulfram’s eyes widened. He peered up at Bracken, whose expression managed to convey both horror and victory.
“Read it,” he said.
Feeling nervous, Vulfram flipped the parchment over and read. The message was a thank-you note, the final link in a chain of unknown correspondences, the words simple yet menacing in their ambiguity.
It is the mark of the faithful that we accept our roles without question, and yours is perhaps the most important one of all. Now that you have seen the seed planted, it is time to offer a choice. Whatever choice is made, find peace in the knowledge that the Divinity will hold you in his highest regard when he returns and will ensure that no ill befalls you.
The letter was dated three months ago. There was no personal mark on the bottom of the page, but Vulfram didn’t need to see one to know who had written the letter. His eyes had scanned many a decree from Clovis Crestwell over the last eight years. There was no mistaking that loose, frantic scrawl.
He let the letter dangle in his hand, dread clamping down on his stomach.
“What does this mean?” he asked.
“You tell me,” Bracken replied.
He couldn’t. His head began to feel dizzy with the possibilities, and his knees grew weak. Amazingly, it was Bracken Renson, who had just admitted to wanting him dead, who now stopped him from falling. Vulfram accepted his help, leaning on the man as he stumbled across the room. Bracken guided him into the chair behind the library desk and handed him a jug.
“Drink some wine,” he said. “You will feel better.”
Vulfram tipped back the jug and felt the fruity liquid pour down his throat. It didn’t do the trick.
“Stronger,” he gasped. “Do you have any rum?”
Bracken shook his head.
Sighing, Vulfram eyed the jug once more, then downed the rest. Liquid seeped out the corners of his mouth and ran down his bare chest, red as blood. When he was finished, he tossed the jug aside, its rounded wooden shape bouncing on the stone floor before rolling beneath a table in the corner.
“Better?” asked Bracken.
“Not in the slightest,” he replied.
“Now do you understand my madness?”
“I do, Bracken. I do indeed.”
For whatever reason, he had been entrapped by the very people he served. If the letter were to be believed-and he saw no reason why it should not be-Clovis had been in communication with Broward. The vague pieces grouped themselves together in Vulfram’s mind. Broward had been instructed to lure Lyana and Kristof into a clandestine relationship, giving them ample opportunity to fornicate. When Lyana was with child, Broward passed along the crim oil, neglecting to mention the side effects, thereby ensuring they would be caught. And all of this had been ordered with the promise that it was the will of Karak himself.
It was nothing but a guess on his part, but it made perfect sense. Why else would his old friend have so fearlessly admitted to his crime? Why else would he have looked on with anything but horror as his own grandson was executed? And why would he have protested so much at the moment of his own death if not because he had thought himself exempt?
This wasn’t supposed to happen! I was pro-
Promised was to be that last word. Vulfram clenched his fist, crinkling the parchment as he did so. He almost tossed it into the hearth but thought better of it-instead, he flattened it, folded it neatly, and tucked it into his satchel. By itself the letter proved nothing. The words were carefully crafted and studiously vague, just as Vulfram would have expected from a weasel such as Clovis. But it was something-a weapon to be used. He needed answers, needed to get back to Veldaren as quickly as he could to confront the Highest about his role in this mess, to pry out-by force if necessary-the reason why such torment had been heaped on him. What, in all his life, had Vulfram done to deserve such a punishment?
Broward came over and knelt down beside him.
“Do you see now how you have been used?” he said.
The wine was finally beginning to work its magic, flowing through Vulfram’s bloodstream.
“I see betrayal,” he growled. “I see innocence lost. And I see blasphemy in the Highest.”
Bracken’s eyes widened.
“I am heading back to the castle,” Vulfram said. “With Karak back in our fold, it will be easy to discern who performed this treachery. However, if this is a trick, Master Renson, if this is your way to force me to sign my own death warrant, let me assure you I won’t die so easily. And if I find out you are lying, I will storm back here so that you may join your beloved son and father in the afterlife.”
Bracken didn’t seem at all taken aback by his tone.
“I understand,” the man said, and that was all.
“And you’re wrong, Renson. Our god is not to blame for this. Our god is perfect in every way. It is humankind that is flawed…one man in particular.”
Without another word, Vulfram rose from the chair. He swayed on his feet for a moment, but the woozy feeling passed soon enough. He left the Renson manse a moment later and hurried home. The sky was brightening and the roosters were cawing. He needed to get back to the Manor and must depart quickly if he were to avoid any dangerous questions from his family. There’d be no good-byes, no promises or false hopes. Nothing to delay him further. If there were any way to save Lyana from a life in the Sisters of the Cloth, he would seek it out, even if it killed him.
The least he could do, as a husband and a father, was to try.