He looked up at Irulan, and for a moment, she thought those eyes shone with gratitude. Then they glazed over, and Quillion was dead.
She tore her gaze away from Quillion’s corpse and looked at Andri, who stared back at her, stunned and sickened.
“What have I done?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
Irulan fought to keep her voice even. “I’m not sure, but I think you may have just killed my great-grandfather.”
Chapter SIXTEEN
Wir, Eyre 4, 998 YK
With an anguished cry, Andri pulled his sword out of the old shifter’s body. It came loose with a sucking sound that made the bile rise in his throat. Swallowing it down, he tossed the weapon aside and fell to his knees, begging the Flame that it was not too late.
He laid his hands on the shifter’s ruined chest, closed his eyes and prayed, fervently invoking the healing power of the Flame.
Nothing happened.
No argent light or soft heat spreading out from his hands, no divine presence, nothing but warm, wet fur beneath his palms, cooling quickly in the chill night air.
He tried again, his brow furrowing with the intensity of his intercession, as if he could heal Quillion through force of will alone. As if the Flame were his to command, instead of the other way around.
It was futile, and he knew it, but he didn’t stop until he felt Irulan’s hand on his shoulder.
“Andri, let him go. He wouldn’t thank you for bringing him back even if you could.”
The paladin opened his eyes and looked over at the shifter woman, who was kneeling beside him on the ground, her own gaze focused on Quillion.
“What do you mean?” he asked, the slight quaver in her voice making his heart wrench. Because he had put it there.
Irulan reached over and lifted Quillion’s left hand. “Do you see? The silver claw? He was a member of my clan. Probably Bennin’s own son, Rave of the Silver Quill.”
Greddark dug out his wand from within his coat and now whispered something in Dwarven. The multifaceted crystal began to glow, infusing the stand of trees with a hazy, indistinct light. Andri knew it was for his benefit. Both Irulan and the dwarf could see well in the dark. It was a kindness he could have done without, though. The light made Quillion’s dead eyes gleam. Andri knew he was only imagining the accusation he saw there, but the knowledge did not allay the guilt.
“Who’s Bennin?” Greddark asked.
“The greatest shifter hero who ever lived,” Irulan said, her tone regaining some of its usual acerbity at the dwarf’s ignorance. “There was a time when the Church did not differentiate between the weretouched and the moontouched. Bennin changed that. He was a renowned lycanthrope slayer who became famous during the Purge for his efforts on behalf of the Church, hunting and killing more than fifty of the moontouched with his claws alone-claws fashioned magically of pure, holy silver. The stories tell of how he led a contingent of brave knights and clerics into the Demon Wastes to destroy a cult of lycanthropes who were set on taking revenge against the Church. The mission was betrayed by a member of the expedition who was, unbeknownst to Bennin, infected by a wererat’s bite.” Irulan’s voice had taken on a sing-song quality, and she rocked slightly on her knees, her eyes half-lidded as she recited the shifter tale. “The Betrayer led Bennin and his men into a fatal ambush. The battle was fierce and bloody and raged beneath the light of no fewer than five full moons. But finally, the Silverclaw and the three most powerful leaders of the cult were all who remained. Bennin fought with speed, cunning, and above all, honor, but he was overmatched and died beneath the jaws of an old werebear. But not before reaching into the lycanthrope’s chest with his silver claws and ripping out the creature’s still-beating heart. His sacrifice broke the power of the cult and ended the Church’s persecution of shifters. His son, Rave of the Silver Quill, was the first to set his father’s story to paper, and now all of Khorvaire knows of Bennin’s greatness.” She stopped rocking and looked askance at Greddark. “All of Khorvaire except for the Mror Holds, that is.”
The dwarf shrugged. “Sorry. Must have skipped that lesson.”
“I still don’t understand what that has to do with Quillion,” Andri said, finally reaching out to close the dead shifter’s eyes and free himself from that unseeing stare.
“Bennin left three legacies for his descendants: his name, his silver claws-we all have the one claw tipped in silver out of respect for him-and his hatred for the moontouched. Quillion-whom I believe was really Rave of the Silver Quill-was infected with lycanthropy, just like the Betrayer. He would not want to live so afflicted. None of us would. It’s probably what drove him crazy.” She looked up into Andri’s eyes, her expression earnest. “He wasn’t trying to save me when he jumped in front of your sword, Andri. He was trying to die. And you helped him do that. You did him a favor, one I hope you would do for me, if it ever came to that.”
Andri wanted desperately to believe her, to accept the forgiveness she was offering. But watching Quillion-Rave-die by his hand, and change from a murdering, tormented lycanthrope to a tired old shifter, right at his feet … it struck too close to home. It was like watching his parents die all over again, a sin for which there was no remission.
“Favor or not, you just killed our only suspect, before we even had a chance to question him,” Greddark pointed out with a frown.
Irulan shook her head. “It wasn’t him. Look at his legs. There’s no wound like the one Zoden described.”
Both Andri and Greddark looked where she indicated. Though the shifter’s corpse still bore the evidence of Andri’s blow, there was no other mark on him.
“So that means there’s another lycanthrope out there?” the dwarf asked, aghast. “Aren’t those things supposed to be rare? Especially in Thrane?”
“More than one, I think,” Irulan replied. “Quillion mentioned a pack, hiding in ‘the forest that burned.’ I think he may have meant the Greensward.”
“What?” Greddark said, grabbing for his sword, his eyes darting to the surrounding trees.
“No. He didn’t mean the Greensward,” Andri said, closing his eyes against the pain of memory, and realization. Would he never be free of his father? “He meant the Burnt Wood.”
“How do you know that?” Greddark asked, his voice sharp with curiosity. Or suspicion.
Andri opened his eyes to look from Irulan to the dwarf, and back again.
“Because,” he said at last, “That’s where my father went to hunt a werewolf five years ago. Right before he turned into one himself.”
“I think you better tell us the whole story,” Greddark said, his hand still hovering near his hilt.
Andri nodded. They deserved to know the truth. “Can we do it somewhere else?”
“Back to the pond?”
“That’s fine.”
Andri stood and retrieved his sword from where he had thrown it. In the moonlight, the black blood looked like tarnish on the silver blade. Shoving the thought aside, he wiped the sword clean on a patch of dead grass and sheathed it.
When he turned back, Irulan still knelt beside her great-grandfather’s body. Andri swallowed the lump sticking in his throat and walked over to her.
“Do you want me to give him last rites?” he asked as gently as he could.
Irulan shook her head without bothering to look at him. Perhaps because she couldn’t stand to.
“Rave never embraced the Silver Flame the way Bennin did. They say he always blamed the Church for his father’s death. Besides”-she glanced up at him at last-“you already gave him the only absolution he would have wanted.”
Greddark started trying to cover Rave’s body with brush, to make an impromptu cairn, but Irulan told him not to bother. The rats would find him when his absence eroded their fear of the place, and they would return his body to the earth. It was the way.