Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [11]
Molin had no time to savor his victory; he barely had time to get the staff planted between two stones before his witchcraft-fueled vigor ebbed. His joints ached, his muscles burnt, and it took all his will to keep himself upright. When the worst had passed and he’d reopened his eyes, Molin saw not only the man he’d killed, but the awkward heap where Atredan Serripines had fallen.
Slowly, painfully, and knowing what he would find, Molin made his way to the young man’s side. Kneeling, he felt for a pulse; there was none. After closing Atredan’s eyes, Molin withdrew the fatal dagger and studied it in the moonlight. To his mild surprise it was an Imperial dagger bearing—unless he was very much mistaken—the crest of Theron the Usurper carved into its hilt. Thirty years had passed since such knives had been common in Sanctuary and, notwithstanding Theron’s failings as emperor—he’d established the dubious and ongoing custom of usurpation rather than political compromise as the means of Imperial governance—a man who owned one of the Usurper’s steel knives wasn’t apt to part with it willingly.
Which said what—if anything—about the red-handed assassin?
Still hobbling, Molin returned to the corpse he’d created. He loosened the knotted silk. The lifeless face confirmed his worst suspicions: beardless, browless, and bald, with lips as dark as the silk; equally dark patterns swirled like serpents across his cheeks. Though it was hard to be certain between the tattoos and the moonlight, Molin judged the Dyareelan to be a man in his midthirties, too young to have received the knife direct from Theron.
He’d gotten it from someone else. An accomplice?
Molin shivered at the thought. No one in Sanctuary had offered a word of protest when Arizak banned Dyareela’s cult and sentenced Her red-handed minions to one of the many traditional Irrune executions: tied hand and foot to the tails of four horses. Molin accepted that there were those in the town who secretly worshiped the outlaw goddess—She spoke to a need, as old and dark as night itself—but no man dared walk the city’s streets with bloodstained hands, and another generation might pass before gloves were fashionable.
Perhaps he’d mistaken paint for tattoos?
Molin took the Dyareelan’s lifeless hand, spat on its wrist, and rubbed the border where light flesh met dark. The line remained sharp, his own fingers unstained. The stains were permanent and, recalling the assassin’s words and accent, he’d been no stranger to Sanctuary. Muttering curses as if they were prayers, Molin let the hand drop and searched for other clues.
Arizak won’t like the sound of this; and Lord Serripines—Molin shook his head, imagining the Rankan patriarch’s reaction to losing his second son and losing him, after all these years, to the Bloody Hand. He tore into the stranger’s clothing, even pulled off his worn but serviceable boots. Aside from his tattoos and the silk, there was nothing—nothing at all—to distinguish the assassin from other men—no additional weapons, no jewelry, no luck charms, not even a sprinkling of the blackened metal bits that passed for money in the poorer quarters of Sanctuary.
The absence of identity was uncanny and, for a moment, Molin regretted that final blow. But, with or without witchcraft, he was an old man, and he couldn’t afford generosity; besides, the Hand didn’t respond well to interrogation. They broke quickly enough … and succumbed to the madness inherent in their creed.
Wearily, Molin wrapped his fingers around the staff. He felt the weight of all his years climbing to his feet. In part, that was the aftermath of witchcraft, but not all. If the Bloody Hand of Dyareela were back in Sanctuary, then he’d failed when it had mattered most, and every sacrifice he’d ever made for this gods-forsaken