exclusive fishing rights in Lake Azalan. Phoran had checked his maps and found Lake Azalan to be a small body of water in the Sept of Holla's lands. The law was so odd - the Septs usually had effective exclusive rights to any fully enclosed body of water - that Phoran knew there was a story behind the ruling. The second concerned a small section of land awarded to the Sept of Jenne for his "services to the Empire."
He pored over the simple words to mine them for clues and regretted the indifference that had kept him from the council the past few years, because he no longer knew all of the different alliances. Geography helped - all of Holla's signatures were from Septs in the Northeast, Holla's neighbors. All except one of his neighbors. The one, thought Phoran with sudden comprehension, who had been sending fishermen into his neighbor's lake.
That one would work - Holla had little influence in the council. But he'd rather come down on the side of justice.
The second one was frustrating because the land in question was so small that he couldn't find out much about it.
He looked up from a map and the Memory was there.
He hadn't realized how long he'd been in his study. He'd trimmed the lamps absently as he'd needed, and there was no window to tell him that the sun had set.
Slowly Phoran set his pen down and shed the heavy state robes so he could bare his arm. The hope that had cloaked him for most of the day evaporated at the touch of cold, cold lips on his skin.
It hurt, and he looked away as it fed.
"By the taking of your blood, I owe you one answer. Choose your question."
Tired beyond reason and still trembling with the remnants of pain, Phoran laughed harshly and said, "Do you know someone who could help me understand what's so special about a small slice of the Sept of Gerant's lands that the council would gift it to the Sept of Jenne?"
The Memory turned and drifted toward the door.
"I thought you owed me an answer," said Phoran without heat. That would have taken too much passion, and he'd already, really, given up on his plans. He would not hurt an innocent man just because his petition was convenient for his purposes, and he was beginning to believe that the library did not contain the information he needed to refuse to sign Jenne's petition.
He'd already begun to go back to comparing two well-drawn maps to a third, less clear, but more detailed when the Memory said, "Come."
Phoran looked up and saw it waiting for him. It took him a moment to remember exactly what he'd asked.
"You know someone who could help?"
It didn't answer.
Phoran stared at it and tried to think. If anyone saw him... He glanced at the parchments and maps scattered around and gathered the ones that might prove helpful.
Chapter 9
They came for him shortly after Myrceria left.
Tier set the lute down, and stood up when the door opened to admit five men in black robes like the one Telleridge had worn. Their hoods were pulled down over their faces and they walked in as if they each had a predetermined place to stand. Tier had the oddest feeling that they did not see him at all.
They took up positions around him. One after the other they began chanting, a low, droning, off-pitch sound that he could not decipher because the words they used belonged to no language he'd ever heard. Magic, he knew, but he was helpless to stop them because of Telleridge's command.
As one, they raised their hands above their heads and clapped...
He awoke lying on the floor, naked and sweating. The memory of pain lent nausea to the cacophony of tingling body parts. He sat up, frantically trying to remember what had happened after the wizards had clapped their hands, but the thought of the sound made his ears ring.
They had taken his memories. Even so, there were things that he knew, as if the events he couldn't remember had left a visceral residue on his body. He'd been violated, not physically raped but something that was a near kin.
He sat up straight and held his head like a wolf scenting a hare. He remembered that, remembered someone telling him... remembered Telleridge telling him that he would not know what had happened.
Owls had very good memories.
Tier's lips drew back in a snarl. Hatred was a foreign emotion to him.