Warder Estate
“There’s a message here for you, Sister,” Brother Risoven says.
Isabel looks up from the tiny desk in the chapel’s spare room, on which lies the remains of the sample of red fungus. It is all but entirely crumbled into dust. Risoven stands in the doorway, holding out a small, folded paper sealed with wax.
She takes it. The wax is red, the seal a stylized W set above the image of a fence on what might be a grassy hill. It lifts easily when she slides a finger underneath it. The handwriting is old-fashioned, canted sharply to the left with tall, thin loops.
Sentinel Rainier, it reads,
My nephew had mentioned seeing one of your order around town. I am delighted that you reached out to me and quite eager to meet you. If your duties permit, I would like to invite you to an informal luncheon at my humble estate this afternoon.
Most sincerely,
Lucas Warder, Esquire.
This last line is decorated with a flourish that ends ignobly in a tiny splatter of ink.
Below it is an address. If Isabel’s memory of the countryside surrounding Mondirra is correct, and it has been some time since she last explored it, it will take a couple of hours on horseback to reach the estate. It’s midmorning, and the sun is bright. A ride might do her some good.
She had intended to go to the Temple District this morning, in the hopes of enlisting the help of a cleric of Ondir in her inevitable investigation of…whatever it was that she had felt outside of the warehouse last night. There had been some kind of death-magic done in the city, enough to leave a scar of the sort a Sentinel is trained to sense, and she does not want to go alone to find out what exactly had happened and where.
Isabel folds the letter again, lining the seal up with the waxy circle it left behind on the other side of the paper. So much had happened since she wrote to Mr. Warder; she had forgotten about it entirely. There are more pressing issues to attend to now. She could send her regrets.
The Warder device, however, remains a mystery. Isabel has yet to see it, and Berend hadn’t been forthcoming with the details he had witnessed, citing a contract he was unwilling to break. She had not expected an unaffiliated sellsword to have such a strict sense of decorum. If she is honest, it is far more frustrating than admirable. Surely Berend understands that a wealthy family’s social standing is of far less import than the state of someone’s soul.
Isabel still does not understand what happened to Mikhail Ranseberg. Her only lead is the device and the vague picture Berend painted of a screaming ghost.
It will only be a few hours. She’ll be back in Mondirra by evening, before the necromancer has a chance to commit any more terrible murders. Or so she hopes.
She feels helpless, forced to wait for the murderer to make another move—to lose another life and try to comfort the ghost when she arrives too late. If only she had more Sentinels and a handful of priests to organize them; she might as well have wished for a detachment of holy knights, all armed with magic swords, for how attainable the church’s support was now. She is the only Sentinel who is closer than Vernay, three days’ ride south.
Nothing will be accomplished by staying here. She wishes Brother Risoven a quiet day, puts the saddle back on her old gray mare, and sets off down the sun-dappled highway toward the Warder estate. The tall, thin trees lining the road are just beginning to turn gold at their edges. It is a comfort to see the change of the seasons; no matter how terrible the workings of man, the gods and their creation remain the same.
The mare’s name is Willow, and Isabel did not give it to her. She had carried a number of Sentinels over the years, one of whom had named her, and of late she is beginning to show her age in the patches of white around her muzzle. Isabel lets her graze occasionally at the wildflowers under the trees. It has been many centuries since her order had need of disciplined, battle-hardened destriers, and there was no sense in hurrying to the Warder estate and denying old Willow a few pleasures before her retirement to the fields outside Vernay.
As the sun climbs into the cloudless sky, the day grows warmer, but a wind from the sea keeps Isabel comfortable even in her blacks. She could almost forget the purpose of her errand and the tasks awaiting her return.
It’s past noon when she sees the estate rising over the next hill. It is old, all stone blocks and pointed arches; the product of ancient and well-established money. The farmers in the surrounding field look up with mild curiosity as Isabel passes before returning to the work of the harvest.
A stable hand meets her outside the house and takes the reins from her. “Sentinel,” he says, touching the brim of his straw hat.
“I’m here to see Mr. Warder,” says Isabel. “He should be expecting me.”
“Miss Rainier!” comes the cry from the delicately carved front door. “I’m so pleased you could make it. Come in, come in.”
This must be Lucas Warder. Isabel guesses he’s in his late sixties, his thin hair and waxed moustache nearly white. He is dressed in a somber gray coat with sharp tails, and his pressed trousers are tucked into a pair of riding boots so polished as to reflect the image of Isabel and her horse. He carries a cane but does not lean on it.
His cheerful demeanor confuses her, though she had experienced something similar with Warder’s nephew. There are few who are happy to see a Sentinel—the best she can usually hope for is exhausted relief that the reanimated dead will soon be at rest and no longer a trouble.
“It is good to meet you,” she says. “I’m sorry if I’m late. Your note only reached me by midmorning.”
Warder waves a hand in dismissal. “Not at all, not at all. You must be hungry. Please, follow me.”
A uniformed servant holds the door, and Isabel follows Warder into the manor. The interior is dark, as is often the case in these old houses. Sunlight enters in narrow beams from the high windows. Tapestries line the first hallway, to keep the draft out as much as for decoration and a show of wealth. Their bright colors suggest they have been well maintained.
They enter the dining room. This space is much brighter, and the windows are stained glass, refracting spots of color onto the surface of the vast wood table. Warder pulls out a chair at one corner for Isabel and sits beside her at the table’s head. “Welcome to the humble home of the Warders, Miss Rainier,” he says. “If you don’t mind my asking, are you a relative of the original Sentinel Rainier?”
The question takes Isabel aback. She has never met anyone outside the church who knows the name of her order’s quasi-mythical founder. “I’m not,” she says. “I was a foundling, raised in the temple. Those of us who have no family name are given Rainier’s to honor him.”
“I see. Forgive my curiosity,” Warder says. His smile is wide, and it seems genuine. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had the honor. Many years ago, I used to work with your fellows. I’ve always admired the Sentinels. You’re far more practically minded than some of the others—the hermit brothers of the church of Alcos, for instance.”
Isabel makes a noncommittal sound.
Warder’s smile doesn’t falter. “Well, to business, then, speaking of work. You were asking about the device. I’m afraid I’ve been taking a less hands-on role, so to speak, since I retired, but I’d be glad to discuss it.”
“I’m just curious how it works,” says Isabel. “I’ve really only heard about it secondhand from someone who worked briefly with your nephew.”
“Ah, well, I must keep some trade secrets, you understand.” The smile grows wider, and Isabel is put in mind of a wolf baring its teeth. His tone remains light as he continues. “However, for old times’ sake, I can tell you what it does. We set out—Eugenio Smith and I, and later Lucian—to replicate with a machine what you Sentinels do with ritual. We theorized that with the proper application of light, sound, and energy, we could banish a ghost just as effectively as prayer and magic.”
Isabel must have given him a dubious look, because he continues, “Magic, Miss Rainier, is an observable process just like any other. If science can explain why the sun rises and the tides recede and the stars turn in their spheres, then there must be an explanation why your archaic drawing of circles and reciting of verse allows a spirit to depart this plane for good. Don’t you agree?”
Lucas Warder is even more arrogant than his nephew. What he says borders on heresy—to suggest that the gods do not act upon the world and grant their servants power would have earned him a formal denouncement, at best, in years past. Isabel keeps her face carefully neutral. “We speak to spirits in words they understand,” she says, “and it is through the power of Ondir that our commands have weight and our rituals have the desired effect on the space between planes. I’m afraid there isn’t much else to be explained.”
Warder chuckles. “Well. We all have our secrets. Your predecessors guarded theirs with some jealousy. With the device, we were able to drive wayward ghosts away, though unfortunately not between planes. Still, it was a damned sight useful for buying enough time for one of you to take care of it permanently.”
A young woman in a spotless white apron brings out a loaf of brown bread and a thick, creamy soup in a brass tureen. The food smells incredible. Isabel hadn’t realized how hungry she is.
“How long has your nephew been working on the project without you?” she asks, after she has devoured two thick slices of the bread and most of a bowl of soup.
Warder blots at his sculpted mustache with an embroidered napkin. “It’s been…ten years, now, I should think. I still help him with the costs, of course, and lend him space or the use of my coach. Though his new research partner did put a scratch on the door the last time. I’ll have to talk to Lucian about that.”
A scratch on the carriage. There’s no way to tell without seeing it if Warder’s carriage is the one that left varnish on the door of the warehouse, but it can’t be a coincidence that Warder’s name and his device comes up again and again.
“I’m not involved in the research these days, you understand,” Warder continues, “but Lucian has said he’s nearing a breakthrough, thanks to his new colleague. I’m very excited to see what he’s come up with. You may be headed for an early retirement, Sentinel Rainier.” He smiles again, more pleasant this time, but not entirely without the wolfish quality.
Isabel’s returning smile is thin and polite. She does not have high expectations for the success of the device. It may well create more problems for the church, not fewer. “What can you tell me about this new partner?”
“I haven’t met the lad. Can’t quite recall his name.” Warder twists the point of one side of his mustache in a pensive gesture. “I believe Lucian says he was, until recently, an acolyte of the church of Alcos. I admire him seeking more scientific pursuits, and it seems he’s made himself invaluable to Lucian.”
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