The Void of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood Book 3)(2)

Pralt, we know that many abbeys have tunnels constructed beneath them, secret passageways that enable people to escape. Surely that is where the mastons fled.

Pralt exuded a sense of contempt for Corriveaux, which only inflamed his anger.

We know this, Corriveaux. I am not a simpleton. You cannot move a herd of kine without leaving a trail of dung. You cannot move a herd of people without evidence either. The trail leads into the center of the abbey, not into the dungeon where the learners are instructed and where underground trails are most likely. There is a screen of wood. The Rood Screen. The markings of their feet were evident all the way to the screen. Then they disappeared.

Corriveaux listened in shocked silence. He could almost see the other man’s thoughts, could tell that Pralt had personally led the inspection.

They are gone, Corriveaux thought bleakly.

That is what I am trying to tell you. You must tell the Hand. What would he have us do? I am awaiting orders to raze the abbey and burn the city. The fleet is settling in and occupying houses. They left . . . they left cooked meals for us, Corriveaux. Every table was set as if expecting visitors. They left their belongings. All of them. Clothes, cloaks, vases, looms. Everything was abandoned and left behind for us to pillage. It is difficult maintaining order. The men want to go ashore and begin plundering. They left it all for us to take. Why would they do that?

Corriveaux gritted his teeth in fury. A peace offering. He knew that was what it was. We are innocent and harmless. We give you our city. We give you our possessions. Spare our lives, our culture. Do not hunt us.

The Apse Veil is open, Corriveaux thought.

What is that? Pralt demanded.

You have not studied the maston ways sufficiently. Their legends are as deep as time. The Apse Veil links the abbeys together, much like these waymarkers link us. If the Apse Veil had opened in any other kingdom but Comoros, we would have been the first to hear of it. It must mean they have gone to Muirwood. The mastons have returned after all, just as the Hand feared they would.

What would you have us do? Pralt asked.

Be vigilant. They may have left spies behind to study our reaction. Have the abbey guarded night and day, but in secret. The mastons may be peaceful, but they are cunning. Some may try to slip through the abbey again. Be watchful.

I will make it thus. Farewell, Corriveaux.

Farewell, Pralt.

Corriveaux released the waymarker, and the din from the celebration flooded his ears, making him nauseous. He was sweating beneath his velvet tunic, so he took a moment to calm himself, repeating the dirge of the Dochte Mandar in his mind to focus his thoughts.

As soon as he felt centered, he hurried out of the chamber of the waymarker and down the hall—the racket of the revelers increasing with each step. He avoided the doorway leading into the great hall, where hundreds of Leerings illuminated the vaulted beams and provided heat and warmth for the men gathered inside. After they had their fill of the casks of drink that had been provided, the slave women would be brought in to dance, inflaming them all the more. Every day new ships arrived from foreign ports, bringing a new glut to be enjoyed—whether it be wealth, food, fabric, or art. Though it disgusted Corriveaux, it was necessary. Men would only commit the worst murders when they could drown their senses afterward and if they truly believed that those killings would improve their standing in their next life. It did not hurt that any last traces of guilt could be purged by the kystrels.

For a moment he felt an unexpected temptation to join in the reveling. But no, the Victus stood above the ranks of mere men. They were the masters of the fates. The spinners of webs. The patient spider awaiting its prey. He could feel the trembling strain on the lines. It was time to act, time to bite, time to feast on blood.

Corriveaux reached the end of the corridor and opened another door that led down into the dungeons. As he passed, Leerings meant for light greeted him. His boots clipped on the rough stone steps as he hurried his way down. At the base of the steps, a door Leering blocked the way. These had also been taken from the abbeys and would only open with the proper password.

Unconquerable.

The door responded to his thought and swung open with a grinding sound that made him squirm. Flames dimly lit the passageway beyond, and the smell of nutmeg hung in the air. Corriveaux entered and walked down the small arched corridor. Rooms were set into each archway along both sides of the main gallery. Within these alcoves were shelves and tables that sagged under the weight of gleaming maston tomes. Buried deep within the ground, it was a place sacred to the Victus. It was the inner sanctum, the only place where the tomes were allowed to be read. The Leerings were triggered so that if anyone attempted to carry one of the aurichalcum tomes away, all of them would be instantly engulfed in fire.

The tomes contained rich secrets, and one of Corriveaux’s favorite pleasures was to come here and glean knowledge from the pages.

Another chamber—Corriveaux’s destination—rested at the very end of the corridor. The heavy wooden door gaped open.

“Corriveaux,” said a raspy, gravelly voice as he reached the threshold.

He could not see the man behind the voice.

“Where are you?” he answered.

“Where you cannot see me,” came the reply. “Put your dagger on the plinth.”

That was different. A Victus’s dagger was his only safeguard against murder. Being asked to put it down was a request for absolute trust and fidelity. The dagger was a symbol. The members of the Victus did not all know one another’s identities. Only the Hand knew. The dagger was a sign to show the carrier’s allegiance, a token that enabled him to walk unmolested past any Dochte Mandar and fulfill his assignment, regardless of where he traveled.