Shadowguard

Sneaking through the halls of the Guard post was not as entertaining as the novels made it seem. There was a sense of urgency as they made their way through the post, but the act itself was tedious, if not boring. Everna hung back, feeling rather useless, as Wil peered into every room they came across. Most were empty, cluttered with more paper scraps, crates, and old weapons. One room reeked of alcohol, the three guards inside drunkenly stumbling through a game of Blackguard.

It seemed ridiculous and unnecessary to check every door, though she supposed if there were a time to do it, it would be then. Only the night patrol and a few stragglers were awake at this hour. Still, Everna knew what she wanted wouldn't be in the archives. If they were, she wouldn't be looking for them.

If it were up to her, and Wil seemed uninterested in her suggestions, she would check Windmore's office first. She didn't believe the missing reports were a matter of coincidence. They likely contained something detrimental to his claims, so he would never leave them within reach.

Windmore may be stupid, but he wasn't completely daft.

Still, the more she thought of it, she realized he couldn't have done it alone. Windmore was not the only one in Mayor Ashburn's room at the time; several of his subordinates had gone to appraise the scene before he arrived, and, as far as she could recall, they hadn't joined him when he presented her sword before the taproom.

He'd had help, but from who and how had he enlisted it? Had he threatened his subordinates into submission? Had he bribed them into cooperation? Or, though a more outlandish speculation, were those subordinates not subordinates at all, but impersonators?

Had Sir Swiftbrook considered that possibility?

She'd wager he hadn't. The Guard, at least Pendel's company, was as loyal to Mayor Ashburn as they were to Sir Swiftbrook. She found it hard to believe they would be complicit — or that Sir Swiftbrook would take well to the suggestion his men weren't as trustworthy as he advocated.

Yet one of those two suspicions had to be correct; there was no other reasonable explanation for why none of them spoke up. The guards who entered Mayor Ashburn's room would have conducted a thorough sweep of the scene; they had to note the details for their reports. They would've known her sword wasn't where Windmore claimed he'd found it.

That may be what the missing reports contained: conflicting statements of about the sword's presence.

"What in the name of the gods made you think heeled boots were a good idea?"

Everna glared at the back of Wil's head. She was more than aware she'd underdressed for the occasion, her boots loud and her coat dress cumbersome. With the added weight of her cloak, moving quietly was an arduous task, not that she was ever good at it. She couldn't grab a glass of water from the kitchen without waking half the house on a stormy night.

"Oh, my apologies, Your Highness," she jeered, not at all apologetic. "Next time I'm coerced into a spontaneous break-in, I'll dress for the unexpected occasion."

He threw her a look over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed. "At least take the damned things off before someone hears you bumbling around."

Scowling, she leaned down and loosened the laces. Her boots weren't ideal for anything, really, and they hurt more often than not, but it was a small price to pay for convenience. She had to reach the upper shelves of the liquor cabinet somehow, and her father, with his towering stature, often forgot how small she was. The thought of getting a stool never occurred to him (and he forgot within minutes of her reminders).

Wil looked back at her. "Just take your sweet time with it, why don't you?"

Briefly, she considered flinging one of her boots at the back of his head, but her small shred of maturity stayed her hand. She'd only make more noise in doing so.

She pulled her boots into her right hand and hurried after him. The stone was cold beneath her feet, even through the thick wool of her stockings, but her footsteps no longer echoed through the halls. Now that she'd taken her boots off, she could hear the difference.

There were only three doors remaining before they reached the first stairwell. The next floor housed the officer's quarters, and above that was Sir Swiftbrook's office. The storeroom had to be on the lowest floor, unless they've moved it into a vacant room on the second.

She hoped it was behind one of the three they hadn't checked. If Windmore were at the post, he'd likely be in his quarters, and she'd like to avoid a confrontation with him.

Just as Wil peeked into the room on her immediate right, the one nearest the stairs caught her attention. It was the room Sir Swiftbrook had taken her to when she returned from the capital. Yet something about it seemed off to her. All the doors, even to the occupied rooms, were closed, yet that one sat ajar, a sliver of candle light spilling through the crack.

Careful not to make a sound, Everna inched towards the door, her lips pressed into a thin line. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, a terrible sense of unease creeping over her. She squinted through the crack and paused.

Sir Swiftbrook sat at the large oaken desk in the middle of the room, his head resting atop a scattered pile of papers. A quill lay balanced precariously in his limp hand, the nearby inkwell tipped on its side. The candle in the far corner of the desk had burnt away, leaving nothing but a white nub and a holder nearly overflowing with liquid wax.

He must've fallen asleep while working.

Just as she pulled away from the door, she spotted something amiss. The papers didn't look right, the pile beneath his head stained with a dark liquid. It wasn't ink; the fallen well faced away from the pages, and its contents spilled onto the floor, not the desk. A strange smell turned the air — a coppery scent just detectable above the dust and parchment.

Blood.

Abandoning all caution, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

A horrific gash split Sir Swiftbrook’s throat, the muscles torn so deeply she could see the white of his spine. A few inches further and he would no longer have his head attached. Blood coated the front of his tunic, his lap, and the floor beneath the desk. It was still wet, gleaming in the light. It became apparent now that the door wasn't blocking her view that his body rested in an unnatural position, as if someone had tossed it into the chair and tried to arrange in a way that suggested he'd fallen asleep while sorting through reports.

Reports, she found upon closer inspection, from the night of Mayor Ashburn's assassination.

She turned, her gaze sweeping the room. There was nothing amiss, Sir Swiftbrook aside. The bookshelves remained upright and their contents orderly. Neither the desk nor the chair in front of it had moved since she'd last been inside. A thin layer of undisturbed dust coated the windowsill, the window shut and locked firmly in place.

"What part of stay behind me do you not—"

Everna wrenched her sword from its sheath and held it before her, her hands shaking. "You did this, didn't you?!"

This wasn't a coincidence. Twice now, someone of high standing had died in Pendel. She and Wil were present for both.

She should've seen it sooner. He could slip through the shadows. He had an invisibility ring. Sir Swiftbrook denied it, but it was plausible that Wil killed Mayor Ashburn and returned to the taproom while she was in the cellar. No one noticed him when he arrived. They wouldn't have seen him return.

A tiny voice in the back of her mind — that pesky voice of reason — insisted she was jumping to panicked conclusions. If that were the case, she'd be dead by now, but for all she knew, her earlier assumptions might be correct. He hadn't gotten her off the chopping block, and he'd merely taken advantage of the Courts' decision. There was no other explanation.

Wil pulled the door shut and leaned against it, his arms folded over his chest. "It seems like it, doesn't it?"

"You—"

"Calm down and use your head, Everna. I've been with you the whole time."

"For the past half-hour," she countered. "Who's to say you didn't kill him then bring me here? Was that the goal? To use me as the scapegoat?"

Wil released a heavy sigh. "While your suspicions aren't unwarranted, given the circumstances, you're wrong. Put the sword down."

She refused.

"I meant what I said about your refusal to cooperate.” Something flashed in his eyes, something cold as he stepped away from the door, a hand sliding to the daggers at his side. "I don't need your help; you're just making things easier. But right now, you're getting in the way."

Gods, she was dead. If Wil didn't kill her, the Guard would find them. She'd be hanged. Her parents would have to watch their daughter die for crimes she hadn't committed. Windmore would—

The door flung open, slamming into the wall behind Wil. Her breath stilled in her lungs, her blood ice in her veins. As if summoned by the thought of him, Captain Windmore strode in, a wicked grin turning his lips. Behind him stood several of the Guard, all equally delighted as he was.

She glanced at Wil. His face betrayed nothing, his expression slack with indifference. Yet tension coiled his muscles as his hand flexed around the hilt of his sword. She caught the firm set of his jaw, the cold and calculating look in his eyes.

Windmore set them up.