The Rising (The Rising #4) - Kristen Ashley Page 0,41
who might have fled have been found,” Alfie guessed.
“Not yet, though they are searching.”
“Is there some indication this is of The Rising?”
He shook his head again. “It seems unrelated, sir. Though we’ve sent a variety of investigators to that area with due haste. Those who would aid in the search if some had escaped whatever happened. Those who would aid the locals in investigating what happened. And last, those who would determine if this atrocity happening in this time is a coincidence, or part of the larger issues we face.”
Yes, Holder Mikaelsson was capable, all business, and fortunately thorough.
Alfie nodded and asked, “Is that all?”
“On that, yes. There is one other small matter, which I think you would be interested to know.”
“It is?” Alfie queried.
“A priest, of this Rising, now in the Keep. His Go’Doan name was G’Seph. His given name is Joseph Durie, of the Airenzian. He has repeatedly told guards he was quite high up in that organization and is willing to share the inner workings of The Rising if a reduced sentence would be considered. There are, as you know, several prisoners who are attempting to make this same request. I report this one for he is the most vociferous in his requests, and he has recently mentioned the names G’Thom and Golden Thomas, which, as you also know, the guards were instructed to note and report if a prisoner cited them.”
“We have ample prisoners in the Keep who can, and are, sharing the inner workings of these miscreants,” Alfie replied. “And this one isn’t the only one who’s mentioned this Golden Thomas.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Apollo cut in.
Alfie turned to Apollo. “I don’t imagine True will be of a mind to be lenient with anyone in that faction.”
“I won’t make any promises,” Apollo assured.
“Then as you wish,” Alfie said.
“I’ll go with you,” Tor murmured.
“Excellent,” Apollo replied.
Alfie looked again to Mikaelsson. “Are we finished?”
Mikaelsson nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Then, dismissed.”
Mikaelsson nodded again, stood, dipped his chin to Apollo and Tor, then he left the room.
Alfie sat back in True’s chair and turned his gaze to the two men.
But it was Apollo he addressed.
“You have an instinct about this priest?”
Apollo shook his head, but said, “I have heard that name before. In other reports. He is the man who had his hands shorn off by his own comrades.”
“I remember,” Alfie replied. “He also is the man who led Melisse into a trap and nearly got her killed, this after they’d shorn free his hands. My feeling is that indicates a rather extreme level of zealotry.”
“Thus, it would be interesting, whatever he has to say,” Apollo replied.
Alfie could see this.
Apollo put his hands to the arms of his chair and murmured to Tor, “We’ll be away?”
“Once I talk with Cora. Tell her where we’re going,” Tor said.
“I shall also talk with Maddie. Half an hour? On the front steps?” Apollo suggested.
“I’ll call for our horses to be brought ’round,” Tor offered.
Apollo nodded.
They both stood, said their goodbyes to Alfie and left the room.
When the door closed behind them, Alfie looked down to his sticks that were resting on the floor by his chair, hidden from view.
He had been practicing on them as frequently as he could. However, he was finding to his frustration that his lower half was heavy and unwieldy, which made progress slow-going and tiring, so that frequency wasn’t as frequent as he’d wish.
He could navigate across a room.
He could not get himself from True’s study to his chambers without resting in chairs placed along the hall the entire way, this being done for the purpose of allowing him just that.
And stairs were impossible.
But navigating that hallway, under the carefully averted eyes of soldiers he once commanded, was a mortifying enough daily occurrence.
He couldn’t even think on attempting stairs.
He closed his eyes, lifted his hand, and pinched the bridge of his nose just as he heard a knock on the door.
He dropped his hand and opened his mouth but closed it when he heard the latch turning and knew who it was.
He sighed and ignored his stomach warming.
This before who he knew would walk in without waiting for him to call his leave for her to do so, walked in.
Bronagh.
She closed the door behind her and bustled his way, asking, “Is your meeting done?”
Gods, she had far too many curves.
And too much hair.
And those bloody freckles.
“Alfie?” she called, and he started, lifting his eyes from her bosoms to her face.
Her cheeks were pink, but her manner was efficient.