Maellas snorted. He wasn’t falling for it.
“I think I know,” Greddark offered from his place by the fire. As he spoke, he moved closer to Andri, casually stepping in front of Irulan and partially obscuring her from Maellas’s view. Andri hoped the shifter knew what to do with the cover she was being given.
The Bishop’s green eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak, merely tightening his grip on Pater, whose strength was failing rapidly. Whatever move they were going to make, Andri knew they had to make it soon.
He only wished he had some idea what that move would be.
“Your Bishop there is not just a priest. He’s also a wizard. One who came up with a nifty little concoction to hide his affliction from the world. Unfortunately, the key ingredient to that potion is the severed finger of another lycanthrope. And they’re a rather rare commodity in Thrane, present company excepted. In fact, I believe if you were to look in that pouch he’s carrying, you’d find a nice fresh supply of said digits, culled from old Quillion’s body. Enough to last him another fifty years, at least. Too bad he got greedy and decided to follow us here for more.”
Greddark glanced at Andri. “Did you ever wonder why your father brought you those claws? He’d never done that before, had he?”
The dwarf was right. Alestair had never been one to take trophies from his kills. Andri shook his head, beginning to suspect where Greddark’s train of thought was headed.
“My guess is Maellas here asked him for the werewolf’s hand, and your father misunderstood, bringing back the claws as proof that he’d killed the werewolf-which is what he thought the Bishop had hired him to do. He didn’t realize it was the fingers Maellas wanted, and when he didn’t get them, he told your father to keep the claws as a souvenir-what good were they to him?
“But something your father said must have tipped him off that there was more than just one werewolf lairing in these woods. There was no way Maellas could find them on his own-especially with their lair being in Lamannia-and he obviously couldn’t send anyone else to look for them, because look how that turned out. So if he couldn’t go after them, he was going to have to get them to come to him. And what better way to do that then to get rid of their supply line?”
Of course. The shifters of the Silver Circle.
“But what about his victims?” asked Andri. “Where do they fit into this?”
Greddark shrugged. “They were mostly Throneholders and critics-people he wanted to get rid of, anyway. He was just cleaving two skulls with one axe.”
Maellas sneered, making his disdain for the inquisitive’s deductive abilities clear.
“I do hope you’re not paying him too handsomely, Andri. You already know I asked your father to locate the lycanthrope rumor placed in the Burnt Woods-I’ve made no secret of it. But I certainly never asked him to try and kill dear Pater,” the Bishop said, looking at Andri as he ran the tip of his belladonna-laden blade along the old werewolf’s jaw line, leaving a bright trail of blood. “Alestair was simply supposed to bring him back to me for … questioning. But then your father decided to take matters into his own hands, and we all know the results of his arrogance, don’t we, Andri?”
Maellas’s expression was one of mingled pity and disgust.
“How many dead in Flamekeep? And your own poor mother, defiled by Alestair’s animal lusts. You had no choice but to kill her. The Flame only knows what monstrosity might have resulted from that foul union. And do you know why your father became a murderous, raging beast when the moon turned full, Andri, so different from the loving, generous man you knew? Because he took on the nature of the one who infected him.” Maellas held Pater up in front of him, the werewolf’s body dangling limply in his iron grip. “He is the reason your parents died, Andri, the cause of all the pain and guilt you’ve carried with you for so long. And now the Flame has brought him within your grasp, offering you the chance to take the vengeance you’ve always secretly desired.”
It was as if the Bishop could read Andri’s heart, voicing his darkest, innermost thoughts, the ones he wouldn’t even dare admit to himself. Though he struggled against the temptation, Maellas’s words ignited a fire within him, one that threatened to rage out of control.
“Don’t listen to him, Andri!” Irulan called from behind Greddark, risking drawing Maellas’s attention to her and her bow in order to warn the paladin. “He’s trying to manipulate you!”
“Manipulate you?” Maellas scoffed. “I’m trying to help you, Andri. To give you the surcease you long for.”
He shook Pater roughly for emphasis. “You can end it all now. Kill the one who cursed your father, with your father’s own sword-isn’t it fitting? Do it now, Andri. Make the guilty pay for their crimes. You’re a paladin. It’s your calling. That’s why you were chosen for this task. You, and no other. Do it. Now.”
With a cry of grief and fury, Andri rushed forward, his sword raised. Maellas smiled, gloating as he thrust Pater into the path of Andri’s charge. At the last moment, sensing a sudden shift in Andri’s gait, the old werewolf seemed to sag against Maellas. The Bishop’s grip slackened, and before he could readjust, Pater, with an unexpected burst of speed and strength, twisted out of the way. Andri’s now-flaming sword skated over his ribs and singed his dark fur as it plunged past him and into Maellas’s abdomen.
The Bishop bellowed in surprised pain and released Pater, his hands spasming reflexively. As the old werewolf slumped to the ground, Irulan’s makeshift silver arrow thunked into Maellas’s left shoulder with such force that it pulled him off Andri’s blade and spun him around. Another half dozen arrows slammed into him as he fell-Ostra’s shifters loosing their own shafts along with their frustration. The paladin didn’t think Maellas would be getting up again.
Andri reached down and lifted Pater back to his feet. As his hand closed around the lycanthrope’s arm, revulsion surged through him, the sheer magnitude of the emotion catching him off guard.
Maellas was right, he thought as he held the old werewolf up in one hand, his silver blade grasped firmly in the other. Pater was responsible for the deaths of his parents, for the heartache and the loneliness that had plagued him ever since. For the nightmares that still woke him, sweating and crying out, in the middle of the night. For his inability to truly trust anyone or let them get close.
And he had in his hand the means to exact his revenge for it all, argent fire still dancing along its length. He could kill Pater now, finish the job his father started, and then, perhaps, finally, be at peace.
But even as he thought that, Maellas’s other words came back to him.
… your father decided to take matters into his own hands … we all know the results of his arrogance.…
And, finally, his own words to the Bishop back in Aruldusk rang in his ears.
… the blame for my father’s death lies solely on his shoulders, as does the blood of all those he took with him.…
Alestair chose to attack Pater, when all that had been required of him was to apprehend the werewolf. Just as he had chosen not to take any precautions other than chewing belladonna after Pater injured him. In both cases, the silver pyromancer’s arrogant self-assurance had led to severe lapses in judgment. Lapses that had ultimately cost several innocent people their lives-including his own beloved wife, Andri’s mother.
Pater may have infected him with lycanthropy, but Alestair’s true curse was, and always had been, his pride.
Andri let the old werewolf go, his hand falling to his side. His sword’s silver flames flickered and died. Killing the lycanthrope would accomplish nothing but leaving a pack leaderless and a young boy without a father.