The Codex Lacrimae (19 page)

At that, Kenezki howled with delight and the sound pierced her head in a way that almost made Clarinda scream.

She stayed in control, though, and turned from the evil man to ask Fatima about the weather lately in Caesarea.
Anything
to get her blurring, tear-filled eyes out of Kenezki's line of sight.

I think my father's dead, and Evremar and Kenezki are at the heart of it.

“Well, the caskets were simply the commemoration of the poem,” Kenezki corrected the Grand Master. “The story itself is about the exploits of Volund the Dark Elf…”

What on earth was wrong with Kenezki that made Clarinda's head hurt so? Black motes crossed her vision and nausea slid up her throat. Fatima suddenly took hold of the back of her arm to support her.

“Clarinda?” Fatima whispered in concern. “Are you all right?”

Clarinda gave a nod of distracted assurance, but stayed focused on Kenezki.

Volund the Dark Elf. That name, Volund. There's something about that name.
A vision began, but unlike the others she tried to control it. Of all the moments during this banquet, she couldn't fade into dreamtime, not now, not with everyone turned to watch her speaking with the Grand Master and Black Sea pirate.
Stay with Volund, though, you foolish girl! There's pain in his name, but there's something else. Something about making and unmaking.

“Clarinda, your nose is bleeding!” Fatima hissed, handing her a linen cloth.

Big surprise,
Clarinda thought
,
can't anyone feel how evil this man is?

“Oh, Dear,” Evremar said, his voice oozing concern. “Are you quite all right, Clarinda? I do hope our discussion isn't upsetting you…”

“Evremar, enough of this kind of talk,” King Guy warned, drawing everyone's attention from the troubled Venetian girl.

“And, as for you,
Monsieur
Kenezki, I'll have you know that —” he continued in a harsh tone, but Clarinda's focus on the vision made her lose track of all words not in her own mind.

Maimed, but not broken — that happened later. So much broken in Volund that he can never come back to what he once was. The ruination of the elves and the lust of the dwarves; both made the dark books and both allowed nightmare into the Nine Worlds.

By concentrating, Clarinda maintained a view of the vision as the men spoke. Staring through space between Kenezki and Guy as the men argued, Clarinda saw four figures in a forest glade, standing before a mounded earthworks that looked like a...foundry?

Clarinda blinked and wiped at her nose, trying to peer more closely without anyone noticing. Yes, as if a blacksmith opened his shop in the side of a hill!
Ilmarinen.
A voice that sounded like Urd's said to her. Was it Urd, and if so, how was Clarinda hearing her thoughts? Most importantly, why was the Norn so distressed?
There, at the forge! The smith's named Ilmarinen, and this is the moment when he, Volund, and that...other one...undo the covenants. No, I'm confused. This is a new moment, not yet happening, but resonating the same magic. Not a Codex this time, but a Sampo. In seeking expiation and paradise, they bring hell back to the Nine Worlds. Clarinda, you must solve this mystery! There are those at this table here in Caesarea who have exerted themselves in this effort. My sisters and I've foreseen the danger if the Codex Wielder destroys the Niflheim Gate, but now there seems to be more in the works than bringing Veröld Martröd back into the multiverse. If the Sampo's made, a path to Annen Verden will reopen. That cannot happen. Beware of Dietrich the Mad, Clarinda. None of these evil beings should be here, but return they shall, with witches and druids in their wake. This should not be!

The blacksmith's hammer kept its damnable clanging as the figures near the hillside foundry shifted into another time, and another group. Volund and the dark figure were gone, and now, now a
madman
who looked like a living cadaver scampered in front of Ilmarinen, urging the smith to work faster in the moments when he wasn't torturing his captives. Clarinda wondered at the vision, horrified at the skeletal man who danced while a shorter figure (a dwarf?) whistled and hummed as he piled the bodies of his kindred into a pyre near the forge.

She gasped.
Santini
was there — standing calmly before the madman as he screamed at a woman in the shadows of the forest — and then the Hospitaller was flung through the air to land beneath a...sword in a tree? A melody more damned and haunted than anything Kenezki could muster in speech emanated coldly from that weapon.
It's the Singing Sword of Arngrim,
she shouted quietly into the void of dreams.
Aurelius, don't touch that sword!

Dread closed around Clarinda at the sight of the blade. Why wasn't she with him in this dream? In every other vision they'd been together. Where was she, and why did she feel as if her absence was going to lead him to make a disastrous choice? Something horrible was about to happen, bound together by magics that involved this strange quartet of Volund, the dark scampering figure, the toiling dwarf, and the blacksmith, while Clarinda herself was nowhere in sight!

“Oh, very well, King Guy,” Kenezki laughed. “I'll relent for the sake of our party — we've got better things to do. We'll hear the tale of Volund some other time.”

The pain in Clarinda's head vanished and Urd's voice fell silent when Kenezki sat back and sulked in his chair, turning his head to fruitlessly look for support from either the Grand Master or Archbishop, both of whom were speaking to people around them.

“I'll be fine,” Clarinda said, finally replying to Fatima as she realized that only seconds had passed here. She daubed her bloody nose on the napkin that her friend offered.
Santini can't touch that sword, but I'm not there to stop him!
She closed her eyes momentarily, but, nothing. The vision was completely gone.

“Yes, well,” Evremar said, seeing the other side of the table had quieted down. “I thought it was my house and would've liked to hear such a song, but let's change tack. Who here likes riddles?”

Murmurs of approval came from the gathered diners. “Very well,” Evremar continued. “The riddle, then: Who's the strongest — a king, wine, or women?”

Aimery laughed, so far gone in his cups that he began to hiccup as he spoke.

“That's easy, ask my older brother down the table there...
hiccup
.
..the answer's a king, of course. Kings get to command everything: armies, councils, merchants, commoners, wives,
beautifoooool
Greek girls like this little ‘Genie in a Bottle,' here. Get it?
Tha's
a joke!” he leaned toward Genevieve, who dodged a grasp at her, and he reeled sideways again, this time in Evremar's directions. “Kings command everyone. Armies. Tribes. Brothers….everyone…”

“Should we do something?” Fatima asked. “She's your friend…”

“No,” Clarinda replied quietly, “Genevieve's going to have to learn some lessons about life, and better now than later.”

Aimery lurched completely onto the floor and vomited near the feet of his host as he passed out.

Evremar looked distastefully at the sight, and then turned back to the troubadour as his three mastiffs came from corners of the room to lick Aimery's face as well as the remains of the man's stomach.

“I'd say that wine would have to be the strongest of the three,” Guy said to Evremar, putting his best face on for what had become a very strange dinner party.

“Is King Guy correct? Is wine the strongest of the three because of what happened to poor Lord Aimery? What say you?” The Grand Master repeated his riddle. “I ask you, what's the strongest: a king, wine, or women?”

No one replied.

“The ladies and I should perhaps thank you for the compliment, Master Evremar,” Clarinda said suddenly into the quiet. There was a ferocity in her voice that replaced the vulnerability exposed by the talk of caskets. She'd heard the riddle before. Neither Evremar's ‘entertainments' nor Kenezki's attempts at goading were going to distract her from her purpose. “We know that
women
are the strongest of the three,” Clarinda said, giving the answer to the riddle. “In childbirth we bring both the king and the wine-seller into this sorry world, and
all
men fear the loss of strength that they'll suffer when they lust for or love a woman.” She raised her goblet of mulled cider to the jongleur. “
Two
caskets
full of compliments for your riddled praise to us, and you'll get those plus give me three hundred
dinars
and the safe return of my father.”

“Three hundred
and
your father?” Evremar spat, choking on a piece of lamb. “You're trying to make a profit here? At my table?”

“I've been greatly inconvenienced by your games, Grand Master,” Clarinda said coldly, “and my men still have to be paid for a rescue trip that wasn't part of our original schedule.
Padre
would expect me to do no less.”

“Why, you little vixen! Your life won't be worth a
bezant
if…” Evremar stopped, looking with alarm at Guy and Sibylla, who were both watching Clarinda, Kenezki, and Evremar with curious expressions.

Clarinda turned hotly to Evremar, but Kenezki spoke before she had a chance to return to her topic.

What is it about this man? He confounds me at every turn!

“Two casket's worth, eh?” Kenezki repeated, glancing quickly at Evremar, who was glowering at Clarinda.

“Two,” Clarinda said, the purity of her anger at these men lending a strength to her quietly spoken words that made even Khalil stop talking and look at her with curiosity. “Two large caskets that father didn't know I
switched
before he went to meet the Templars at your house in Constantinople.” She stared at Evremar. “
Padre
always had a problem thinking two or three moves ahead on a chess board, Grand Master. Fortunately for us, I tend to anticipate a bit farther ahead.”

“Interesting,” Evremar mused, icy calm suddenly freezing his features, “and refreshing that the game's in the open. So, you
do
know the nature of the merchandise. I hope for your sake that you haven't opened them. May I assume that the caskets are on one of the ships that are anchored in the harbor?”

“I'd assume nothing,” Clarinda said, “especially since the coastline here at the Levant has many ports of call on the route from Constantinople to Caesarea. I left three weeks ago, and the voyage can be done in ten days at speed and with the right winds.”

“She lies,” Kenezki said, trying to regain control of the conversation. “I was on her ship the entire —”

“No, you were on the
Calypso
,
not
my
ship,” Clarinda said, not bothering to look at the pirate, but hard put to ignore the effect of his presence upon her. This time, however, it was his turn to respond and she'd caught him unawares with her words. Any fury he felt was like that of a thousand dying seagulls unable to take to the sky because their wings had been broken — massive squawking and shrieking in her mind, but harmless and impotent if she could ignore the noise.

Pay no attention to this trickster. Whatever he's doing, tune it out and focus on Evremar.

She dabbed at her nose before the blood could trickle again and raised an eyebrow at the Grand Master. “For the last time: where's my father?”

“Perhaps you're bluffing?” Evremar observed. “Why shouldn't I just take you prisoner now, and search your vessels for the caskets?”

“I'm not sure what all this is about,” Guy said, “but you'll not be taking anyone in this room prisoner, Evremar.”

“Ah, well played, my dear,” Evremar said with a shrug. He reached for his fourth lamb shank and tore into it. Between saliva-drenched bites he told her, “We're at an impasse for now, but you've goaded me to action. I don't want our guests to think me uncaring. I'll send some scouts out tomorrow morning to start a search for your father. Then we'll see what we shall see.”

“You've got some wits about you, Lady Clarinda,” Kenezki admitted, more seagull wings snapping in the winds of his words. “Almost witch-like, those wits — like three hags around a bubbling cauldron, stirring things up and always interfering in places they've no right to be. Be careful, though, that your words don't lead you to a worse fate than losing a father.”

“That sounds like a threat, Kenezki,” Alex said quietly from his end of the table.

Clarinda just stared at the pirate.

Three witches? He didn't just say three witches, did he?

“Not at all,” Kenezki replied. “I'm merely referring to the fact that some girls get into more trouble than they expect when speaking...tartly about Fate.”