Unchained tdf-3 Page 5

  “Treasure trove? I’m in charge of the place. You’d think I would have known about it,” Mac grumbled.

  “It’s not Castle business,” Reynard said, his voice quiet. He gripped the stock of his musket tight, trying to hide the fact that his hands were shaking. “This belongs to the guards.”

  He shouldered past Mac and Miru- kai to reach the iron grille. It wasn’t fancy, just a crisscross of black metal bars set into the gray Castle stone. The top of the grille was tipped with spearheads. The lock was as big as his fist and firmly in place. He let loose a relieved breath. “There’s been no theft here.”

  “Look more closely.” Miru- kai’s dark eyes challenged him. “There is no dust on the lock. The grit beneath the gate has been recently disturbed, I think. And look,” he added, bending to pick up a sliver of something bright. “A fragment of painted pottery, yes? The edges look clean and fresh, as if this was broken mere hours ago. These are not begrimed with the grit and dirt of years.”

  Reynard stared at the shard. Like the symbol above the door, it had been decorated with gold leaf. Like the symbol, it held great significance to the guards. A sick anger filled him all over again. He grabbed the fey’s wrist so hard, he felt a shifting of bones beneath his grip. “Perhaps because you broke it yourself? Do you know what a broken urn means?”

  “No, what?” Mac asked, but Reynard’s attention didn’t waver from the fey.

  The muscles under Miru-kai’s eyes tensed from pain. The dark fey curled his upper lip, baring teeth sharp as a vampire’s. “I did not do it. This door is warded with magic, as well you know. I cannot cross its threshold. I can’t even pick the lock. Not with the wards in place.”

  “Then who got in?”

  “Cockroaches go everywhere.”

  “A cockroach broke that urn?”

  Miru-kai jerked his arm free. “With proper instructions, a minor demon could have wormed his way inside. That has always been the weakness of great sorcerers. They set wards to keep out powerful enemies, not the village scoundrels.”

  “And no scoundrel has attempted this lock before?” Mac asked pointedly.

  “Not one with the right mentor.” Miru- kai gave his cuff a sharp, irritated tug. He locked eyes with Reynard for a long moment, glaring his displeasure. After a few heartbeats, the fey looked away. “Every thief here has tried it at least once.”

  “So this villain is more clever than the lot of you.” Reynard gave the lock a vicious pull, but it held fast. Now frustration as well as alarm vibrated through his blood, making his ears pound. He kept his face away from the others until he could smooth it into its customary cool lines. “You’re saying this thief set a distraction by turning the phouka loose and then thoughtfully locked up this room behind himself?”

  “Well planned, don’t you agree? Without me, you might have missed the whole event.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Reynard. “None of this makes sense. No one would ever think to look here for a robbery. Why would a thief need a diversion?”

  Mac folded his arms. “Why did you tell us about this robbery, again? Just because we’re such good guys?”

  Miru-kai smiled. “Perhaps there’s a touch of professional jealousy involved. I’ve always wondered what treasures gather dust behind this door.”

  “I’d guess you already have the catalog,” Mac said affably. “If this door is warded, how do we get in to see what’s been taken?”

  “You are head of Castle operations, are you not?” Miru-kai asked Mac. “I believe you have a master key that will work even on this door. Ordinary keys to the Castle will not.”

  “How do you know?” Reynard asked. There were only nine keys, and he knew where most of them were—but not all.

  “They’ve been tried,” Miru- kai responded. “It will take a master key, or—”

  Reynard turned quickly to Mac, cutting off the prince. “Do you have it with you?” He hated the eager desperation in his voice.

  Mac’s gaze slid to Miru-kai. “Take him aside.”

  Reynard raised the barrel of his musket with a mix of impatience and dark satisfaction. “Walk back down the corridor until I tell you to stop.”

  Miru-kai raised his hands with an aggrieved huff. “Such thanks I get for my assistance. I would not have taken you for such a boor.”

  “Farther.”

  The prince turned and walked with exaggerated strides, making sure Reynard saw each one. The fairy prince had missed his calling as a comic—but Reynard wasn’t in the mood. He’d sooner plant his boot in the prince’s backside.

  “Farther.”

  A flare of white light washed the corridor for a heartbeat. The magic of Mac’s key had unlocked the wards. Reynard blinked tears away, blinded by the sudden brightness.

  Miru-kai turned. “Did it work?”

  Mac pulled on the gate. It swung open on silent hinges. The heavy wooden door behind it surrendered to a shove from the demon’s bulky shoulder. Both Reynard and Miru-kai hurried forward.

  There were torches inside the chamber, casting the same eternal, flickering glow as those in the Castle’s corridors. Reynard took a step into the chamber, his boots scraping on the marble mosaic that covered the floor in a pattern of dark and light squares. The space was octagonal, the stone ribs from each corner making a high, domed vault above them. From floor to ceiling on each side were rows and rows of narrow stone shelves filled with pottery urns.

  “What the heck is all this?” Mac asked softly. The mysterious atmosphere of the shadowy room demanded low voices. “And why didn’t I know about it?”

  “Each urn holds someone’s essence,” Miru- kai said quietly, entering the room behind them. “A life. A soul. Call it what you like. The old guards keep it a secret because what you see in this room makes them vulnerable.”

  “Be quiet!” snapped Reynard, suddenly furious. He felt violated, invaded. “This isn’t your information to share.”

  The prince ignored him and looked at Mac instead. “When the guardsmen—the old guardsmen, not your new men—arrived at the Castle, they surrendered their souls for safekeeping. It made them immortal, but it chained them to their duties. That is why they cannot leave for more than an hour or two before their powers begin to weaken. Once separated from their soul vessel, the guardsmen slowly begin to die.”

  “Why?” Mac demanded.

  “A very clever system.” Miru-kai went on. “Man and urn must both be in the Castle. The magic that holds them together fades in the outside world, and in a matter of weeks the guard is dead. Man in one dimension and urn in another hastens death from weeks to days. I suggest you get busy, Captain Reynard, and find your pot.”

  Mac flushed with anger. “Whose stupid idea was this?”

  “Those who created the guards wanted to keep them obedient. Those men who leave their post perish.”

  Mac turned, staring at Reynard in bewilderment. “Seriously?”

  Reynard gave a single, stiff nod. “I came to this room like all the rest. I did what was necessary. It was required of us.”

  Thunder gathered in Mac’s face. “Who was doing the requiring?”

  Reynard turned away, walking toward the shelves and setting the musket down on one long shelf. He was sweating with panic, the soft fabric of his shirt clinging as he moved. “It’s all in the past now.” His tone brooked no discussion.

  He didn’t want to think about it.

  “I want to know—”

  “Look,” the fey interrupted, pointing to his right. “Some of the urns are broken.”

  Reynard whipped around, filled with fresh panic.

  “So what does that mean?” Mac stooped, picking up a broken lid, bits of wax seal still clinging to its lip.

  Reynard answered. “Those men are dead. They were killed when the urns smashed.”

  Mac spared an incredulous glance at the broken pottery. “Then who died? And when? Whose urn was outside?”

  “No guard has died in several months. Those vessels wer
e empty when they broke.”

  Mac shook his head. “If each urn represents a guard, then a lot must be empty. There are thousands of jars here. There aren’t more than a few hundred of the old guards left.”

  Reynard narrowed his eyes, struggling for the shreds of his self- control. “Some of the urns have . . . lost their contents. We do not age. That does not make us indestructible. Most of us have fallen in our battles with the warlords. Like him.” Reynard glared at the prince.

  “Your vessel is obviously unbroken,” said Miru-kai, looking around the room with a mischievous glint in his eye. “But where is it?”

  Beside each shelf was written a span of years from a calendar far older than the one Reynard had learned as a boy. His shelf was the last to be filled, his urn the last to be placed there. He covered the distance to that row in two strides. He snatched up one vessel after another, reading the names inked onto each potbellied side. Where is mine? It should be right here!

  Or here.

  Or here.

  His heart was racing, making his head swim. He stopped handling the fragile pottery, afraid he would drop one of the vessels. He turned to Miru-kai, his face feeling slack with fear. “How do you know mine was taken?”

  “Do you see it there?”

  Reynard’s breath failed him for a moment. “No.”

  “Don’t you feel its absence, like a hole in your belly?”

  Reynard didn’t answer, because he couldn’t. He felt so sick with apprehension, he couldn’t tell whether anything else was wrong. “How do you know?”

  “Call me clairvoyant.” The fey gave a predatory smile, his affable facade falling away. “Or a ferocious gossip.”

  Reynard dove for him, snatching at the front of Mirukai’s rich robes. The force of his anger lifted the fey from the marble floor, dangling him in the air. The violence felt so good, a moment of release. Rage was one base instinct his curse hadn’t stolen from him. “What do you know?”

  “Reynard!” Mac shouted.

  Miru-kai lowered his eyes, looking down at Reynard with cool mockery. His glittering stare was inhuman, hostile. “What a prize the soul of the guards’ captain would make. A jewel for any collector. A collector who has carried it right outside these walls.”

  “Who took my soul?”

  “Better to ask why, and what else might have escaped the forest. That gate was opened before today.”

  “Why?” Reynard roared.

  Miru-kai was starting to wheeze under the iron clench of Reynard’s grip. “Ah, you have me there, old fox. I don’t know why the phouka was set free, but I’m glad it was. It gave me the perfect excuse to connive my way into this room.”

  Mac was beside Reynard now, one hand on his arm. “Put down the enemy warlord and step away. He can’t talk much longer with you strangling him.”

  The prince gave a jeering smile.

  “Wretch!” Furious, Reynard threw Miru-kai to the ground, using all his strength to smash the fey like one of the shattered urns.

  Miru-kai vanished before he hit the ground. Reynard heard him land, saw a shimmer, but his prey was gone. Reynard stumbled forward, swinging at the empty air with his fists. “Where are you, son of a whore?”

  Blood pounded in his head. He stomped, driving his boot heel over and over into the floor, hoping to catch a limb or—better yet—Miru-kai’s sneering face.

  “Forget it; he’s gone invisible.” Mac gave an experimental kick at where the prince should have been. Fire blazed in Mac’s eyes a moment, the heat of anger bringing his demon to the surface. “I had no idea he could do that. No wonder he made such a good thief.”

  “Blasted fairy!” Reynard whirled, smashing his boot heel into one of the empty shelves. The stone split with a sharp crack, chunks crashing to join the broken urns below.

  Mac grabbed his shoulder. “Cool it!” He swung Reynard around, looking him up and down. “We’re going to fix this. Somehow.”

  “He knows!” Reynard snarled. “Someone stole my life and that thrice-damned fairy knows who it was.”

  “Yeah,” said Mac. “But I doubt he came along just to gloat. Why was he so anxious for us to let him in here?”

  Thursday, April 2, 12:30 a.m.

  The Castle

  Reynard stormed through the gloomy corridor, heading back to the guardsmen’s headquarters. He needed to know who was patrolling this section of the Castle over the last week. Somebody saw something; they just didn’t know it yet.

  “How clearly are you thinking right now?”

  Reynard turned on his heel, wheeling around to face Mac. Anger ripped through him, leaving his thoughts in dangling shreds. Striking out would be a relief, whether or not Mac was the right target. He had to look up into the demon’s face, but that didn’t faze him. He’d taken on bigger creatures and won.

  “I commanded this guard for a very long time before you joined us.” The words were polite, but Reynard’s tone was ice. “I know the workings of this place better than anyone. I’ll find this thief.”

  Mac’s expression was carefully neutral, torchlight playing on the planes of his face. “Cut yourself some slack. You’re going to need help on this one. Even from a newbie like me.”

  Hauling in the reins of his self-control, Reynard turned and started walking again, his footsteps echoing in the darkness. “No one can help me.”

  “Is that so?”

  Reynard stopped dead. Fury was a cold thing, freezing the flesh from his bones. “The guardsmen have carried on, decade after decade, heading out to fight monsters we cannot possibly defeat,” he said quietly. “It does not matter what bites, wounds, or claws us. We heal and keep going back for more until we’re torn to pieces so thoroughly that even we cannot mend. That is the service we owe.”

  Mac said nothing, just listened.

  “It is not right.” Reynard paused, breathing hard. “Not right that we should die because our soul vessel smashes like an old teacup. It’s bad enough that some foul thing has stolen my life, and that I am passed around from seller to buyer like cheap goods at a county fair. If someone drops or damages the urn, then it’s good-bye, Captain, and fetch the broom and dustpan. I am the head of the guardsmen, a warrior with centuries of skill, and I am vulnerable as an egg.”

  Mac shook his head. “Yep, that sucks.”

  “It’s bloody ironic.” Reynard’s rage ebbed a little, enough to feel the fear beneath. Amazing that he still fought to live, when hope was such a cruel joke in the Castle. “It’s bloody embarrassing. A man should be a bit less breakable.”

  “How come you’ve never mentioned any of this before?”

  “The prince had it right. The magic that rules the guardsmen binds us to this dungeon more securely than if we were one of the prisoners. We vowed to keep silent about the soul vessels for our own protection, and the secret unites the old guards like nothing else could. Nevertheless, that vow must have been broken, if every thief in this place has an eye on our vault.”

  Mac clapped a hand to Reynard’s shoulder. “We’ve gotta get a handle on this. What was that Miru-kai was saying? There’s a collector involved?”

  “Unless he was lying.”

  “But if he isn’t, that means your life essence—soul, whatever—has left the building.”

  Reynard took a deep breath, realizing Mac had somehow calmed him down. Directed his anger to a practical problem. He wasn’t the kind of superior Reynard was used to, but he was damned effective.

  Reynard gave a tired smile. “I would bet all two and a half centuries of my overdue pay that there is a conspiracy in the Castle, and Miru-kai is in the thick of it.”

  The two men shared a look. Demon fire smoldered in Mac’s eyes, a sign of temper.

  “Yeah,” said Mac. “Okay. First, who or what else is in the forest that might have escaped? I’m thinking opposable thumbs here. Someone who could be a thief, perhaps coached by our fairy friend.”

  “A demon would be the most likely candidate, but the forest is vast. Th
ere are thousands of hellspawn, and no means of checking to see if one is missing.”

  Mac grunted unhappily, and Reynard could see him adding “demon inventory” to his mental list of projects.

  “Perhaps a demon got out first, and then the phouka today,” Reynard added.

  “That’s right. Someone had to let the phouka loose. A flunky demon had to open the lock to the guardsmen’s storage room. A sorcerer had to know how. And then someone else had to have a connection on the outside. While it’s remotely possible that was all one or two people, I highly doubt it.”

  Reynard considered that. “And in the outside world, there is a collector and the vampire assassin hunting Ashe Carver. Two very different interests. There is more than one player beyond these walls as well.”

  “See, I said you needed help tracking down all the answers.” Mac swore under his breath. “I’ll bet this is the tip of a nasty old iceberg.”

  They began walking again. Reynard felt his sense of purpose trickling back. “When I’m done with the guards, I will begin questioning the known thieves.”

  “Dude, I’ll cover the stuff inside the Castle. You’ve got to get outside and find your soul. We don’t know exactly when the urn was taken. I know it can’t be too long because you’re still okay, but . . .”

  Reynard jerked, the words cleaving him like a broadsword. “Outside?”

  “If it’s separation from your urn that’s the problem, you need to be wherever it is. If it’s left the Castle, you have to follow it.”

  “Wonderful. Just bloody wonderful. How am I supposed to track the wretched pot through a world I don’t know anymore?”

  “Ask for help. We’ve got friends. Ask Caravelli. Holly.”

  Freedom. A sudden chill seized him, making goose-flesh. Anticipation or fright, or both. If he left the Castle for too long, would he be strong enough to come back to eternal duty in a dark dungeon? Or would that much freedom drive him mad, like poor Killion? “This isn’t how I envisioned getting a few days’ leave.”

  “Ain’t life a funny old thing.”