"The brother recently killed?" he said, covering his mouth with fat, sausagelike fingers. "Whatever for?"
Drakken thought for a moment before answering, "We are gathering the sub-prior's belongings in order to sell them for those in need, and we had a question about a few of the articles we found."
The half-dragon gazed intently at the merchant, sure that the man had seen through that thin web of half-truth. If he had, however, the canny merchant gave no indication.
"I see," Valerix said, stroking his beard with indolent grace. "How can I help?"
Drakken ignored the man's tone, which clearly indicated that it would be a waste of time. He reached into his robe and pulled out the purple wool swatch.
"Have you seen this before?" the half-dragon asked.
Valerix furrowed his brow, causing deep folds in the skin, as he examined the wool.
"Why, yes," he replied after a moment. "This is part of a sample of product that I give out to prove the quality of my wares. The swatch belongs to me."
"I see," Drakken replied. "Then can you tell me how it came to be in Brother Arranoth's room?"
The half-dragon couldn't quite keep the accusation out of his voice.
"That's easy," came the reply, no less pointed. "My negotiations with Brother Brontheld, the Cellarer, were… let's just say that they were bearing little fruit. So I appealed to Brother Arranoth and offered him samples of my wares. It's that simple," the fat merchant nearly purred.
"Then you won't mind if I verify that with the Brother Cellarer himself?" Drakken asked.
"Of course not," Valerix waved at the half-dragon dismissively as he returned to his meal. "Now, if you don't mind…."
Drakken nearly took a step forward and grabbed the merchant by the collar so angry was he at being dismissed, but a disturbance in the courtyard distracted him. Even inside the guest house he could hear the buzz of many voices.
"Excuse me," he said abruptly, and left the merchant without another word.
The courtyard was a riot of activity. Brothers and servants stood in huddled clumps, chattering excitedly, or else they were running from wall to wall carrying baskets full of supplies.
"What's happening?" he yelled to a passing servant.
The woman stopped and turned to the half-dragon, terror written clearly on her face.
"Have you not heard? They've sighted orcs, they have. In the hills not a day's ride from the abbey."
The news sent Drakken's heart pumping. Perhaps there was still something he could do.
Clearly, it was time to speak with the abbot.
A knock at the door pulled Drakken from his nightmares. He groaned and tried to roll over, to ignore the pounding on the door. Despite his best efforts, it continued-each blow resounding in the room like the hammer that would, finally, bind him in chains for the rest of his life. There was no escaping it. He had killed Brother Arranoth.
The pounding continued.
Drakken groaned and stumbled to his feet. His small cell lay in ruins. Deep claw marks scarred the length of the stone wall, while a tangle of splintered furniture and torn clothing littered the floor.
Memory rushed in on him like a tidal wave. Despite three attempts to see the abbot, he had been unable to speak with Meremont. Each rebuffed attempt stoked the embers of his anger. Frustrated by his inability to participate in the abbey's defense, he had retired to his cell, falling at last into a fitful slumber from which he could not seem to wake.
Images plagued his every moment. The visions were immediate and terrible in their detail. It was as if Drakken wasn't merely reliving the horrifying event, but rather found himself trapped within the moment, tearing out the sub-prior's throat again and again.
Sometime near dawn, he had struggled free of his nightmarish prison, overcome with guilt arid anger.
Rage over his obvious complicity in Arranoth's murder met with a deeper, burning hatred fueled in his heart. The beast within had slipped its bonds and he had lashed out at anything near him, until exhaustion drew him once more into sleep.
The knocking grew more insistent, penetrating the undertow of guilt brought by the evening's nightmares.
"What?" the half-dragon yelled as he pulled open the door, expecting the abbot and a host of his accusers.
Instead, he found a young novice in a simple white robe. The boy took a step back, eyes widening at Drakken's wild appearance.
"Brother Phenotar wants … he wants to see you urgently," the novice's voice quavered.
When he arrived at the herbalist's workshop, Drakken followed the novice to a back room. The half-dragon was sure that everyone in the abbey knew of his guilt. He had felt their eyes upon him as they walked across the abbey close. Steeling himself, he entered the room, prepared for the worst.
Brother Phenotar barely acknowledged his entrance. The herbalist leaned intently over a figure lying on a broad table, running his fingers over something that looked suspiciously like a human arm. Drakken was about to shout his confession to the studious cleric when he realized that the arm belonged to Brother Arranoth.
The half-dragon began to shake, and was surprised when a voice somewhere within him began to curse him for his cowardice.
The herbalist, apparently, took no notice of his condition, but rather continued his examination.
"Take a look at this," Brother Phenotar said without preamble, indicating the sallow track of skin upon the corpse's arm. "Interesting, is it not?"
Drakken drew closer carefully, sure in his heart that the corpse would leap up and point damningly at its murderer.
"I don't… I don't see anything," he replied.
"Hmmm…" came the reply. "Yesterday I mentioned that I needed to study something further. The wounds to our departed brother's throat have bothered me from the beginning."
"Why?" Drakken asked, bending closer to the corpse despite himself.
"There did not seem to be enough bleeding for the severity of the wound." The herbalist tilted back the corpse's head, exposing the ruined wreck of its throat. "So, I did some further examination and I found this."
He indicated a small wound on the inside of the corpse's arm.
"What is it?" Drakken inquired.
"At first," Phenotar replied, "I thought it was a simple insect bite. But I ran some more tests. That's when I discovered that someone had poisoned Brother Arranoth.
"Adder's root," the herbalist added. "Very deadly."
"Then Arranoth was-" Drakken began.
"He was already dead when the wounds to the throat were made," Brother Phenotar finished. "I examined the throat wounds further and I discovered tiny slivers of metal. Whatever made the wounds wasn't natural."
Drakken felt his knees begin to buckle as relief flooded through him. He wasn't the one who'd killed the sub-prior! All of the hours of self-recrimination and hatred seemed like a dream. The Brother Herbalist's discoveries put a part of his mind at rest, while another part began to whirl with dark possibilities.
He stammered his thanks to Brother Phenotar and took his leave. If he hadn't killed the sub-prior, then
Brother Arranoth's murderer was still at large-and had gone to quite some length to incriminate him. Looking at the darkening spring sky, Drakken headed back to his cell. He had only a few hours to prepare for his meeting with whoever left that note.
Drakken stood quietly in the Upper Cellar, one hand resting lightly on a stack of wooden crates, the other fingering a small set of prayer beads hanging from a belt loop sewn into his simple robe. Despite a bitter chill permeating the dank cellar, the half dragon's spirits were higher than they had been in months. Brother Phenotar's discovery had lifted a dark weight hanging upon his shoulders ever since he'd known of the sub-prior's death. Sure of his own innocence, Drakken could barely contain his relief. He only hoped that whoever had dropped him the mysterious note could shed some more light on Brother Arranoth's murder.