The Scrivener s Tale - By Fiona McIntosh Page 0,81

once-warm brown eyes were staring sightlessly at the intricately painted chapel ceiling and she briefly looked up at the mural that Emperor Cailech had commissioned to be painted. She had always loved it. The artist, Fairlow, had taken most of his adult life to complete it. It was breathtakingly beautiful, a rendition of the Wild beyond the border where legend had it that dragons flew above the forests and streams, where exotic flowers and other strange fauna abounded. She admired Fairlow's imaginative flair; the lifelike paintings that always made her feel as though the king of the beasts was staring just at her. Not with ferocity, though; more with affection and with joy.

A boy rode the back of the dragon. The legendary Fynch.

That name was haunting her.

'I told the priest not to finalise anything with the body, your majesty, particularly that you had requested seeing it as it was found,' Burrage said.

'And I suppose Pel and other villagers would have been too superstitious to close his eyes anyway.'

'Indeed, majesty. Until prayers were said for him and the name of his killer passed to someone somewhere, they would continue believing his spirit was watching the murderer.'

'Piffle,' she lamented, snapping her attention back to Flek. 'Do you believe that Father Morn or Cuthben might now miraculously give us the name of Flek's killer?'

'No. But even I do feel more comfortable for our spiritual protocols to be followed.'

She sighed and Burrage continued.

'Clearly Pel was so shocked, your majesty, I doubt anyone was prepared to interfere at all with the body.'

She nodded her understanding.

'What are you hoping to see here, your majesty ... er, if you don't mind me enquiring?' Burrage asked carefully.

'I don't know. I hoped something would give a reason why Reynard's quill was found with him. Did he steal it? Was he given it?' She didn't wait for Burrage to answer. 'I doubt it was the former. Flek was well liked and known according to Pel. I can't imagine him for a thief.'

'No, majesty,' Burrage said softly in the background over her thoughts.

'So that leaves us with Dean Flek being left with Reynard's quill? Why? Reynard treasured that swan quill. He would never have given it away and even if he did, why to the naked stranger?'

'Perhaps stolen by this Gabriel fellow?' Burrage tried.

She shook her head, irritated that this puzzle eluded her yet feeling conscious of a hidden 'awareness', which some people claimed everyone possessed but rarely tapped into, that this man or at least his death was connected with Fynch's warning.

'Majesty, my head is spinning with all the potential conclusions we could draw. The fact is, unless this corpse can talk, we'll never know.'

She didn't care about Burrage's dizzy head. She knew she was right - the quill was surely meant to be found. The dead man's modesty was protected with linen. Her gaze took in his thick legs before turning to the hands, which were large and sunbrowned. Flek clearly didn't mind working outdoors. She moved to his left and turned that hand over, not at all squeamish about touching the corpse.

It was cool and surprisingly dry, although it had lost its springiness. Florentyna could see the depression of her fingers, which in living flesh would have rebounded immediately.

'If he was left with Reynard's quill perhaps he is a scrivener of sorts?' Burrage offered, clearly feeling redundant. 'We could ask Pel if - '

'No ink,' she remarked briskly. 'Every scrivener I've met had stained hands,' she said, in a vaguely dismissive tone. Then her voice softened. 'No, this man did not write or copy with ink, not even for a hobby, Burrage.'

'You're most observant, your majesty,' he commented.

She gave a mournful smile. 'His death will remain a mystery. The riddle of Reynard's disappearance is now further clouded by the quill's appearance. I'm embarrassed to think that that man Fynch could know more.'

Burrage stared at her stonily. 'He was mild enough, your majesty, but he was stirring trouble. I'll never understand why Chancellor Reynard brought a doomsayer into your life.' He cleared his throat and waited, but when she didn't say anything in response, he asked, 'Why are you thinking of Master Fynch?'

She blew out her cheeks, frustrated. Florentyna shrugged a shoulder. 'He haunts me.'

Burrage frowned. He was standing by the head of the dead man. 'In what way?'

'Something about his manner, some intensity, that demanded I take notice of him.' She could tell from his expression that Burrage thought she was reading too much into