The Unseen Hand

Ch 6: Forkleaf

Venedi, Seventh of Sund'im, 445 A'A'diel

Jarle pushed open the door to Tan'os' bedroom with his boot. Moonlight filtered through a row of lancet windows, bathing the spacious room in a bluish glow.

Tan'os' chamber had none of the luxurious trappings of his daughter's bedroom. Every piece of furniture was functional and austere in its design. Two claw-foot chairs with threadbare cushions faced a giant stone hearth whose dying embers still glowed hot. In the center of the room, upon a blackwood four-poster bed with columns as thick as tree trunks, the Vise of Reyza lay dead. Tan'os was sprawled sideways upon plush furs, one hand clasping at his bare chest.

In the moonlight, the Vise's blood shone black. It glistened upon the bed curtains, the pale furs, his arms, and legs. There were no signs of a struggle. Mast had harpooned the Northman's heart with deadly accuracy. It was a surgical strike that relied on Tan'os' heart to do most of the dirty work.

Jarle had only seen the Vise from a distance, on the rare occasions when he addressed the people from the parapets of Chancellery Square. He had seemed larger than life-a pale juggernaut amidst the olive-skinned, slim-fingered peoples of Reyza. In person, the distinction was even more pronounced. Tan'os was the epitome of the Bissatiel bloodline, blond-haired, broad-chested and tall-easily one and a half times Jarle's height. Bulging blue veins, visible beneath his alabaster flesh, ran the length of his arms, culminating at his thick neck. Strands of his blood-smeared hair hung over the edge of the bed like a shimmering cascade.

Looking at him, Jarle felt a pang of sadness. He could not recognize the noble lord or the brave sea captain who had once defended Reyza from the scourge of pirates. He saw only the face of a man plagued by a thousand troubles and his last, harrowing seconds spent among the living.

The sharp planes of Tan'os' face were chiseled in a silent howl.

Jarle blocked the door, preventing Avaren from entering the room. "You do not need to see this," Jarle said, his voice low. "Your father is dead. We should go."

"No! I must see him." Avaren pushed past him. She rushed into the room, clambering upon the bed to her father's side. Hot tears ran down her cheeks as she smoothed back her father's hair. "Papa!" Avaren cried, cradling the dead man in her arms. "Oh, Papa."

Jarle winced at the sight of the grief-stricken girl. In the moonlight, her pallor held a radiance, not unlike the marble quarried in the Canyon of Parryos, whose flawless white sheen was coveted the world over. Her long hair fell over her bare shoulders, glowing as if possessed by some mysterious luminescence. Jarle squeezed his eyes shut, but the strange aura surrounding the girl remained. He blinked again, rubbed his eyes, and forced himself to look elsewhere. As he did so, his mind cleared.

Suddenly it dawned on him-there had been no struggle because the Vise had been poisoned. The corded, cramped muscles along Tan'os' arms and his facial expression were the results of paralysis.

Jarle crossed the room and seized Avaren's wrist, pulling her hand away from Tan'os' face. "Poison," he cautioned, sniffing the air. Alongside the smell of blood, oiled wood, and Avaren's alluring perspiration, Jarle's trained nose picked up a faint, bitter smell. It reminded him of Esh'fah sauce, a fermented condiment favored by the Ghossians. Jarle narrowed his eyes, surprised by Mast's choice of poison.

"Forkleaf," Jarle said. "It paralyzes the body." The rare herb grew high on the frozen peaks of Blackspur, the Thrommish capital's mountain hold, where the air was thin. The substance induced excruciating pain, followed by debilitating spasms that caused the heart to beat faster until it stopped from exertion. Forkleaf explained the copious amount of blood that had gushed from the wound in the Vise's chest. "Your father died quickly," he lied.