So saying, the old werewolf clambered to his feet, and began to methodically part the fur on his thighs with both hands to show that he bore no wounds underneath. But doing so required him to put his entire weight on his own legs, instead of using the walking stick, and it was too much. Pater’s knees buckled and he would have fallen, but Andri sprang up and caught the lycanthrope before he hit the ground. As he helped the werewolf back to his feet, Pater’s hand darted out, unerringly finding the chain Andri wore and yanking it from around his neck.
The werewolf held the necklace up.
“Son of the Flame, son of the Flame wielder,” he said, hissing the sibilants, and Andri saw his hand.
He had no claws.
Chapter NINETEEN
Sar, Eyre 7, 998 YK
Before Andri could think to react, something big and white blurred past him and crashed into the old werewolf, knocking both him and Pater to the ground and sending the necklace of claws flying. As Andri rolled frantically to the side to avoid the fire, he caught glimpses of Pater and his attacker tumbling together in a brown and white tangle a few feet away. He regained his feet and drew his sword, joining the others who had gathered around the two combatants.
As they fought, Andri saw that Pater’s assailant was another werewolf. The ivory-furred lycanthrope wore simple gray trousers and the shredded remains of a like-colored tunic, no doubt ruined when he transformed. A dark stain marred the fabric of one pant leg, and it took Andri a moment to realize it was old blood. A similar stain discolored the bottom of a small pouch he wore at his waist.
Then the interloper was standing, dragging Pater to his feet. He had the old werewolf by the neck, a dagger pointed at his throat. The blade glinted silver in the reflected light of the fire.
He turned to face them, using Pater as a shield from the arrows of Ostra’s shifters. Not that those arrows would do more than annoy him, even if one of the shifters could get a decent angle. They had been meant for mundane foes and would not harm a lycanthrope. There were only two weapons visible here that would-the dagger the blonde werewolf held, and Andri’s sword. The werewolf knew it and directed his words to the paladin.
“I really must thank you,” he said, his voice incongruously cultured, coming from the muzzle of a wolf. “I had hoped only that you would lead me to the pack. I never dreamed you would lead me to my own sire. I thought your father had killed him, but apparently getting himself cursed wasn’t the only mistake Alestair made.”
As he spoke, the werewolf dug the tip of his blade into Pater’s throat, and the movement caused a second flash of metal, this one on his hand.
The werewolf wore a silver ring, set with a single, bright diamond.
Andri’s gasp of shock echoed through the camp, and he felt as if he’d just been punched in the stomach. The world spun, and he thought he might pass out.
He blinked away the sudden vertigo, praying to the Flame that his eyes were deceiving him, but when the world righted itself again, the scene before him had not changed. Pater was still held captive by a white-furred werewolf with a leg wound, the murderer who had been plaguing Aruldusk, none other than …
“Bishop Maellas?” Andri whispered in horror.
The werewolf looked at him and smiled.
“Ah, Andri. Brighter than your father, after all. That complicates things a bit.”
As he spoke, he changed, though his grip on Pater never loosened. The fur on his body retracted, the amber cast left his eyes, and his face reshaped itself into a familiar countenance.
“So you have decided to return to us?” It was, against all expectation, Pater. The old werewolf showed no fear, seeming calm, even resigned as he leaned heavily against Maellas, trying to lessen the burden on his frail legs. “Surely there are better ways to ensure your welcome?”
Maellas gave a nasty laugh. “Return to you? I didn’t even know you were here, old man. If I had, I would have come much sooner.”
“Such hatred is unbecoming in one of your position, my son. And unwarranted-in all the years since the Purge, you’ve not rid yourself of your ‘curse,’ despite the resources available to you. One has to ask, why is that?”
“Silence,” the Bishop snapped, pushing the point of his dagger deeper into Pater’s throat. Though he winced in pain as bright red blood welled up around the silver, the old werewolf did not stop.
“You claim to despise lycanthropes-and their descendants, the shifters-and profess to hate me for infecting you, but the truth is, you like being a werewolf. Being among the moontouched gives you strength and power you would never have known as the sickly, fragile priest I encountered in Shadukar, leaving the home of a shifter courtesan by the back way.”
“I said, silence!” Maellas roared, his skin rippling as he fought to control his rage and the transformation that so often accompanied it. He pulled the dagger away from Pater’s throat and with three quick, precise motions, sliced a crude rendition of the Flame into the old werewolf’s chest. As Pater moaned, Maellas laughed again.
“Hurts a bit more than you expected, doesn’t it? That’s because the blade’s been coated in belladonna extract, an interrogation method favored by dear Andri’s father. I’m surprised he didn’t use it on you-but, then, you didn’t put up much of a fight, did you? Played dead while he cut off your claws, and paid for it with your sight.”
Now Andri understood. It was common practice among the Purified who battled evil to sprinkle silver dust in the eyes of those they had slain, in order to prevent the dead from rising again. Since Pater had not actually been dead when his father had performed the ritual, the silver had burned the delicate flesh around the old werewolf’s eyes, blinding him.
But Maellas was wrong about Pater not fighting back-he’d used his claws to good effect before Alestair had brought him down, and it had been one of those wounds that had transferred the curse to his father. Just as, Andri now surmised, had happened to the elf Bishop himself, close to a century and a half ago.
But if Maellas had been able to conceal his true nature for that long, hiding in plain sight, knowing the Church would never look for a lycanthrope among their own ranks, then why was he risking exposure now? Why go on a killing spree in the very city he governed, endangering his position, and his life, if discovered? It didn’t make any sense.
And why was Maellas even doing this? He couldn’t reconcile the humble, pious priest who served Aruldusk so faithfully with this evil, mocking creature that obviously delighted in dealing pain.
Andri knew he didn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle yet, just as he knew he was running out of time to find them. Now that Maellas’s identity had been revealed, the odds of any of them surviving this encounter had just plummeted.
If Andri could just keep the Bishop talking, he might be able to maneuver into position or distract him from Irulan, who was the only other one here who had a weapon that could harm him. Though she would have to make her one silver-tipped arrow count. She wouldn’t get a second shot.
He took a step toward the two werewolves, careful to keep his sword pointed down. He wanted to look as innocuous as possible, but he’d seen Maellas’s speed. He didn’t dare sheathe the blade.
Maellas raised his own blade back to Pater’s throat. “That’s far enough, my boy.”
Andri stopped where he stood and held a hand up to show he wasn’t a threat.
“Very well, Your Excellency,” he said, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to appeal to the Bishop’s vanity. “You’ve clearly outwitted us, and I’m sure you’ve planned it so that none of us will live long enough to divulge your secret. But I have to know-why are you killing innocent people and framing shifters for their deaths?”