Ch. 416 - Familiar Faces

It took several weeks, but Simon slowly worked his way up the kingdom’s food chain to Duke Brin himself, the King’s own brother. While part of him felt like this trip was a waste, he still learned valuable things about who was who and added notes regularly to his mirror in the evenings. 

In that time, he found as many nobles who were filled with valour, or at least goodness, as he did those who were consumed by self-importance and sloth. True evil, though, was a rarity, though. It was even rarer than a truly virtuous soul. Simon found many men with blood on their hands, but no one he felt the need to kill for it. Just like him, that blood was mostly due to war in their younger days.

In that month, Simon only found one man that he needed to kill, and that was a fawning courtier with a sickly gray-brown aura by the name of Royson. He was all smiles, but Simon’s hand felt dirty after he shook it when he glimpsed the things that he did to his serving girls, and that afternoon, under a cloudy sky, he killed someone with magic for the first time in many lives. 

It wasn’t with a word of power, though. He wasn’t about to rob himself of his vision. Instead, it was with a surreptitious gesture with his false middle finger. That was all it took. No one saw it, and when his body was found later, it caused only a little panic among the servants. 

Simon assured everyone, “I see no signs of witchcraft here,” which was only technically true, but it relieved everyone involved. If they wanted to believe that it was punishment from the gods for some unspecified crime, that was far closer to the truth than the idea that a witch had been involved. 

While he spent a couple of days after that worrying that someone might have seen something, that worry had entirely dissipated by the time he finally reached the top of his list, and at last sought out the duke himself. 

It turned out that Duke Brin was not happy to be kept waiting, and when Simon arrived, he was made to sit in a parlor for hours before the man gave him an audience. The duke was older than Simon remembered. He was the King’s younger brother, but younger was relative, and he was still a old man who offered Simon no deference. “You’ve been in the city for weeks. You should have come to me first.”

Simon nodded and answered, “You’ll have to forgive me. I was dealing with other urgent matters and meant no slight.”

The duke was a stern man, with a cloudy aura. It wasn’t dark enough to be evil, but it certainly wasn’t bright enough to be good. Simon’s vision was too blurred to dig into the details, but it was clear that he was a hard man who had made some tough choices. 

He’d have to be to assassinate his own nephew and take the throne for himself in every world he’s given a chance, Simone reflected as the noble studied him silently. 

Finally, the noble said, “I love my brother and our kingdom, but an important moment will be upon all of us soon, and I need to know where your order stands before I do what must be done.” When Simon sat there impassively, the duke sighed and continued. “My brother is ill, and not likely to last the year. His son is a… He’s a wastrel, and while he’s family, he’s not what the kingdom needs. So, I wish to ensure that all of us are on the same page.”

For a moment, Simon wanted to do more than tell the duke to go to hell. He briefly considered setting the man on fire. He’d never do that so blatantly, of course, but this was a moment he’d worked hard to forestall, and to see the aging man reaching for the throne after all he’d done annoyed Simon.

Finally, he managed to answer, “I will do as you ask as soon as I’m able,” but his words were stiff. 

“You don’t seem pleased by what I’ve said,” Duke Brin said tightly. “Why would you prefer someone who was unfit as the prince?”

“You misunderstand me, Duke Brin,” Simon responded. “I am not in any position to decide such things. I merely enforce just laws and stamp out evil where I find it. I just… if the king wished for you to be the next ruler, then why would he not make you his heir?”

“The gods know I’ve tried to prevail upon him,” the noble said, gripping the arms of his chair more and more tightly. “But the man only sees how beloved he is by the people, and not how poorly he would fare if we faced a true test. What if there’s war from the south, or worse, the north? I doubt that the prince even has the spine to put down a tax revolt, let alone those damned horse lords.”

That statement gave Simon some pause. It wasn’t what he’d expected from the duke. While it wasn’t enough to make him think that a civil war was a good thing, the fact that it was probably true put the man sitting across from him in context. The salt and pepper haired noble might be power hungry, but he was practical, first and foremost. 

Another case of doing the wrong thing for the right reasons, Simon sighed internally. That seemed to be everyone’s justification, though, from Helades on down, and as much as he understood it, he still rejected it. 

The two of them talked little after that, but he didn’t ask Simon about his wooden hand, or the warlock that had taken it. The duke was in no mood to defend his decision more than he already had. He was used to telling people what to do, even the Unspoken apparently. 

So, even though Simon had been there for half the day, within less than half an hour after being formally received, he was on his way out. It was then that he saw a face he’d remember until his dying day as he passed one of Duke Brin’s servants in the hall. 

The man was dressed well and unremarkable, but even if Simon hadn’t been killed by him in a former life, he would have spotted the dark aura that enveloped him. The nameless man was used to getting his hands dirty. 

Just like he did when he choked me to death, Simon recalled. He hadn’t seen the man since that day in Crowvar just before he’d tightened the garrote around Simon’s neck, but as the two passed each other in the hall, the memory of that horrible day passed before his eyes. 

That shocked Simon into silence just long enough for the stranger to appear. He tried to wrack his brain for a name, but when he realized he’d probably never gotten one, he pulled the nearest footman who happened to be standing in the hall and asked, “Who was that man?”

“I, uh, Mr. Bryer, sir?” the young man asked, wincing hard enough from Simon’s right grip that he instantly released the servant. “He… he works for the duke? Why has he done something wrong?”

Simon shook his head and apologized for scaring the young man, but he didn’t explain himself. What he wanted to do was track that prick down and demand answers, but that would only draw the wrong kind of attention to himself. 

Instead, he returned to the inn and packed his things. He’d stay the night, but only because sleeping in the wilds as little as possible was the right move when he didn’t have proper armor with him. 

I can blast goblins or bandits to bits, and even hold a shield if I need to, but that won't save me from a knife through the ribs while I'm sleeping, he reminded himself as he paced back and forth in his room like a caged animal. 

Simon had stumbled upon a mystery today, and there was no way for him to escape it. His death in Crowvar, when he’d been on the verge of ruling over his own little fiefdom, wasn’t something he’d thought much about in a long time, but now that he’d been reminded, he was pissed. 

It wasn’t just because he’d found the man, either. The fact that he was working for the man who was about to usurp the throne made it all that much worse. It was a connection that he doubted he would have ever made on his own, but now that he had it, he desperately wanted to know what it meant. 

“I could find out by skinning him alive and killing everyone who gets in my way,” Simon mused aloud, but he resisted the urge. The duke was an important person, tied into many future events. Handling this incorrectly would unlock events he wanted to keep in place. 

So, instead of causing problems now, he vowed to do so with more subtlety after he returned with Duke Brin’s answer. Instead of pacing, he went downstairs and got well and truly drunk for the first time since he’d recovered from the loss of his arm. That delayed his morning departure by a couple of hours, but it was the easiest way to make sure he didn’t do something stupid, and therefore, worth it. 

The ride back to the Broken Tower was faster than the ride to Leipzen had been, even though Simon encountered bandits. Fortunately, they were smart enough to see his white cloak and scatter, which was good for all parties involved. For once, he’d rather obsess over the new nest of vipers he’d discovered than hunt down some local ne’er-do-wells. 

When he returned, he delivered his report to the Master Harrin, who made a few notes. The old man asked a few questions, but when he got to the meeting with Duke Brin, he didn’t comment on the content of the meeting. He just said, “I’ll have an answer prepared after I’ve spoken with the Grandmaster.”

That didn’t take long at all, as it turned out. While Simon’s requests could sometimes languish for weeks, a sealed scroll bearing a white wax seal was delivered to Simon the following morning. Simon didn’t even bother to divine what was hidden inside. 

He knew the message he was bringing; the Unspoken were giving him their blessing to take over the kingdom. That’s what had always happened before, so that’s what was going to happen now. He just didn’t know why. 

Now he did, though. It was ambition; he’d always known that, but it was duty too, and the strange web of allegiances went further than he would have ever guessed. Simon considered waiting another day or two to see if Varten happened to come back, but instead decided to go right back.

That wasn’t because last time he’d made the Duke of Brin wait, either. It was because the sooner he returned, the sooner he could confront Mr. Bryer and see exactly what his role in the kingdom was. Simon doubted the man would survive the experience, but that was okay. He’d given up the right to keep breathing a long time ago. 

Ch. 417 - Usurpers

On Simon’s return trip, he brought his armor with him, even though he kept it packed in a sack. There was no way he was putting on platemail and taking it off by himself, and he wasn’t borrowing a squire he couldn’t trust. Still, he thought it might be necessary, and it was better to have and not need. 

Having it packed in his saddlebags did him little good when he encountered the same bandits he’d run into on his return trip. This time, there were a few more than he’d seen last time. They started to break up as he approached until one said, “This is the bloke that sent all of you scurrying. On account of his cloak? I could kill three of him and not even work up an appetite!"

The man let a long laugh out at that, and Simon sighed. He paused and dismounted his horse and tethered it to a branch before approaching the braggart of a gang leader, who sneered at his approach. 

“You won’t be getting through for free a second time,” the bandit started. “The first time’s free, but the second. Well, a fine man like you can afford to pay at least half a dozen silver shillings. No, make that…”

He stopped talking when Simon pulled his left hand off of his stump and tossed it aside. “No chance of getting a discount on account of my disability?”

It was meant as a joke, but none of the men standing around them laughed until their leader did. Then the forest road rang with nervous laughter.

“You must not deal with men like me very often, Sir Cripple,” the man in charge declared with a wide smile. “Don’t you know we charge extra at the first sign of weakness? I make widows and orphans pay double, well, unless they want to—”

Simon didn’t wait for him to finish talking; instead, he pulled off his leather glove with his teeth and then slapped the bandit across the face with it. It wasn’t a gentleman’s riding glove. It was a thick hide affair, and it left a red mark, instantly silencing the brigand. 

“You think your virtue will save you when you can’t even grip a sword properly?” the bandit leader asked. “I’ll cut you into giblets, and then we can take every last coin you have for that!”

Simon ignored the words. Instead of reacting, he waited until the bandit moved backward and reached to draw his blade. He stepped forward unexpectedly, mirroring the motion, but instead of drawing his own blade, he put his good hand on the bandit’s, preventing him from drawing his sword. Then, before he could do much more than open his eyes wide, Simon brought his forehead down hard against the bandit’s head in a blow that he heard as much as he felt. 

Their skulls cracking together rang out through the deathly silence of the forest grove, with a thick, meaty thud. It hurt. It actually hurt quite a lot, but it wasn’t even a tenth of what he’d felt when recovered from the infection that had infested the bone of his missing left arm, and he ignored it completely. Simon hadn’t been bothered too much by pain in many lives, and now he was well beyond it.

The bandit cursed and struggled to free his sword even after that. When Simon’s second blow landed, he stopped and instead tried to turn and flee, but Simon wouldn’t let him go. One of them was bleeding now. He couldn’t say which. By the third blow, the blood was everywhere, but the bandit didn’t go limp until after the fourth. 

Simon drew the man’s sword as he collapsed, and stood there trying not to look as woozy as he felt. It had made for an impressive show in front of all of these other miscreants, but he could still feel his brain rattling around in his skull. 

“He called me a cripple,” Simon said, looking around at the dozen or so men, evaluating each of them in turn by the brightness of their aura. He was too discombobulated to see details or colors, but it was clear that most of these men were desperate, not evil. “He told me not to show weakness… So I showed him strength instead. Didn’t work out for him did it.”

Everyone was waiting for someone to tell them what to do. Some looked like they wanted to flee, others looked angrily at the limp form of their boss, and those who were still holding their weapons looked like they might fire their crossbows by accident if they got any tenser.

Simon gestured broadly with his borrowed sword, and even though he was still blind in one eye from the dripping blood, he announced. “Relax, everyone. The fight’s over and the toll’s been paid.” As he said those words, he tossed the weapon aside. It wasn’t a show of surrender. He just wanted his good hand free. 

“Well, what if we think it ain’t—” one man started to say after he’d mustered up the courage. 

“Quiet, Terell,” the man nearest to him hissed. Neither man had an especially dark aura, but Simon could read the fear on everyone’s faces even if he couldn’t see it in their auras. 

If we don’t take him altogether, we don’t have a chance. That’s what everyone was thinking. He could practically see the wheels turning.

So before they got any idea, he said, “It's clear to me that most of you aren’t meant to be bandits. No offence, but unlike your boss, you don’t have the scars or the stomach for it.”

That statement brought some sullen looks, but it visibly relaxed everyone, which was all he’d been looking for. Simon endured a chorus of mumbled insults and a couple of accusatory statements about how they’d “like to see him try,” as he bent and retrieved his wooden hand. He wanted to avoid using magic, but if this got ugly, his wand of fire would make short work of these men. 

Simon didn’t get baited into fighting. It wasn’t even because he was concerned about how outnumbered he was. It was that most of them didn’t deserve to die. There were one or two that had dark auras he could see even with a growing headache, but the rest of them were normal enough. 

Instead, after a short speech about how he wanted to help people, not strike them down, they pivoted to stories that sounded familiar enough. Except for a few people who didn’t really see themselves as the bad guy, everyone had a reason for doing what they did.

Some spoke of bad harvests or dead families, but mostly, they spoke of being crushed by taxes. For once, though, it didn’t seem to be a corrupt noble or a wicked tax man who was to blame. It was down to simple incompetence.

Apparently, this close to the capital, the lines between which village belonged to which duke could get blurry, and some of the men had been ruined by two or sometimes even three visits from the tax man a year. Each time it was a different collector, of course, but none of them accepted excuses in lieu of coin. 

“See, now these are problems that can be fixed,” Simon answered, seizing on the issue.

Eventually, the band retreated to their camp, a little way off the main road. And the conversation continued around the fire, and eventually a meal. Their leader eventually regained consciousness, but when he saw his men speaking with Simon, the man merely scowled and slunk away into the growing shadows to lick his wounds. 

At the start of that conversation, no one trusted Simon, but as he insisted time and again that he was there to help everyone, eventually, he won a few of them over, which warmed his heart. Almost no one is beyond redemption, he told himself as he looked around at the men that he might yet help live a productive life. 

After hours spent hearing their complaints, he promised to return and try to solve some of them. “Give me a few days to resolve my current mission,” he explained as he cleaned his wooden bowl of the last of the root-heavy stew he’d just finished sharing with them. “Once that’s done, I’ll come back and see what can be done with the landlords of the region.”

“He’s just stallin’ so we don’t—” one man started to complain before the man to his left bopped him on the head. 

“So we don’t what? Kill him? Are you daft?” the other man said. That brought a round of laughter, as Simon stood and stretched. Without magic, he had no way to take so many, but he wasn’t afraid. Most of these men wanted a way out of the hard life they’d fallen into, and if Simon gave them that, they were likely as not to become farmers and laborers again.

While the two of them argued, he looked around for the man with the darkest aura that he’d glimpsed earlier. Most of these men deserved a second chance, but a couple did not. “While they fight about whether or not they’re going to fight me, why don’t you show me back to my horse?”

The lank-haired man was surprised by Simon’s choice. He was young, and underfed, and hadn’t said a word to Simon in all this time; really, he’d tried to hide at the back of the crowd and the edge of Simon’s vision, which is why he couldn’t help but notice the young man. 

“Me-me?” he stammered, pointing at himself. 

Simon nodded, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Indeed. Come on. The sooner I reach my destination, the sooner I can come back and help the rest of you out.”

There was a chorus of thank yous, or at least gruff replies, then, which was better than the insults they’d started with a few hours before. They followed him into the dark as his guide took them back to the main road. 

Of course, Simon didn’t need a guide. He knew exactly where he was and where he had to go. All he required was some privacy. The night cooperated, and as the two moved away from the light, they were soon wrapped in silence. 

That obviously made Simon’s guide uncomfortable, because as his horse came into view, he tried to fill it with empty words and introduced himself as Immel. Simon let him talk until they were on the road. He was uncomfortable, too. Away from the light, the bandit’s aura swirled with a dark, oily sheen. He couldn’t see exactly what he’d done, but he was certain it had been ugly.

“I just, I really d-didn’t believe there were knights like you,” the young man managed to say.

“No, not everyone,” Simon said, turning to the man who had led him back to his horse. “You’re not going home when all this is done. I know exactly what you’ve done.”

“What do you mean?” the young man asked. “I didn’t—”

“I can see the blood on your hands, Immel,” Simon sighed. “I know what you did to those girls.” He couldn’t quite see that, actually, and for that he was grateful. His vision was just blurred enough that such details were lost to him. He got close enough to startle the bandit, though, because he stumbled back, mouth opening and closing without words. 

“I… Those are just rumors,” he pleaded. “I didn’t… I wouldn’t, I couldn’t… not on purpose.”

Even as he walked backward, his hand moved to the long knife on his belt. Simon made no move to defend himself. Instead, he pushed, stiff-arming the young man and sending him backwards as he tripped over the root of a tree. 

That was his last mistake. He probably deserved a painful death, but Simon didn’t have the time or the investment for that. Instead, he stepped forward and crushed the man’s throat with his boot, with a wet crunch. Then he watched him writhe and gasp like a fish. 

Simon thought about giving the bandit one last lecture, but instead, he just sighed in annoyance. Death polluted his vision too, which was the last thing he wanted just now. Still, it couldn’t be helped. “If I’m going to help these guys get back on their feet, the last thing I want is scum like this one walking around.”

Simon dragged the body back to his horse and, with some effort, slung it over the rump. Leaving it here would only ensure a chilly welcome when he returned, but if there was no corpse, then there was no crime. 

Simon rode off into the night, only a little delayed. This isn’t how he’d planned to spend his day, but it was probably for the best. “I’m not in a hurry,” he reminded himself. “As long as I don’t get in my own way, I’m everywhere, all at once. I’ve got time for this too.”

Ch. 418 - A New Lead

Simon rode for two miles under the moonlit sky before dumping the body in a ditch. He felt worse about not stopping to bury the bandit than he had about killing him. It’s one thing to kill someone who deserves it, but it’s another to desecrate a corpse, he thought as he remounted and continued on. 

That night, he rode only until he found a farm. He persuaded the family that lived there to let him sleep in the barn since he didn’t feel like making camp so late. The following day, he stayed at an inn he’d stayed at on his previous trip. This time he didn’t drink, though. He just stayed in his room studying his notes in a small mirror as he did everything he could to recall the man who had strangled him to death. 

He stayed there part of the next day, too, but only so that he’d arrive at Duke Brin’s estate right at sunset. That would give Simon an easy excuse to stay the night, which would be the best way to get Mr. Bryer alone and ask some hard questions. 

How to go about that, though, was a mystery. Simon wasn’t above torturing the man, but a scream or two would summon servants or guards. “I have some coin,” he mused as he approached his destination, “but not enough to bribe the trusted servant of a noble, I think. Perhaps I can get him drunk.”

That made Simon laugh to himself. Was it possible to get someone drunk enough that they’d brag about how many murders they committed for their master? He supposed it was possible, but much of that depended on the man’s temperament. 

Simon looked for his quarry on the way in to meet with the duke, but did not spot him. Duke Brin didn’t make Simon wait this time. Instead, he dismissed the other men he’d been meeting with and said, “Well, what did your masters say?”

Simon wondered if he meant that generally, or knew enough about the Unspoken to use their titles. He didn’t ask that, though. Instead, he just said, “I think you know what they said,” as he handed the duke the sealed scroll.

The man broke the seal and read it at once, then set it aside and said, “You are correct. I expected nothing less, but you understand why I still had to be sure.”

“Of course,” Simon answered, resisting the urge to lecture him about how wrong it was to start a war to claim the throne, no matter the justification.

Duke Brin didn’t seem to care much for anyone else’s opinion. So, he dismissed Simon immediately and sent him with a servant to arrange for a late dinner.

The meal was leftovers of a larger feast he’d missed earlier, but it was still quite good, and better than he was used to. Still, Simon didn’t focus on the turkey or the gravy-drowned potatoes, and instead focused on his plan. Whenever one of the serving maids came by to see if he needed more, he asked her leading questions about the manor and its Lord. 

“It’s a large estate,” she agreed, “But m’lord isn’t one for formal occasions any more than he’s forced to host them.”

The mundane details didn’t interest Simon, but he still filed them away. It wasn’t until he’d finished eating, and she was going to take him to the room that had been prepared for him, that the conversation finally paid off.

Simon was commenting about how dull it must be in a manor without parties when the woman laughed and said, “Well, there are always a few who liven things up. One of our gardeners can be quite the character, and Mr. Bryer, the duke’s aide, well, he tends to create all kinds of trouble when he’s not working on something more pressing.”

Simon followed up a bit on that, as delicately as he could, and found out that the man he was looking for was usually found in Duke Brin’s upstairs study until all hours of the night. She didn’t know what he got up to in there, but she knew it involved regularly restocking the brandy he loved so much. 

Simon let the conversation move on, but vowed to pay the man a visit, and when he arrived at his room, he thanked the woman. Then he gave her half a minute to depart before going off in search of the man who had once strangled him to death.

Despite the size of the three-story building, it wasn’t hard to find his way. He simply told a footman he had a meeting in that room, and the man gave him exact directions. There, he found exactly who he was looking for, though not in the manner he’d expected. 

Simon had thought that his dark-auraed target would be scheming, or perhaps engaging in debauchery of some sort, but instead, he was reading epic poetry aloud and drinking. Simon listened to him for a moment, but when he entered the room fully, the man stopped. 

“Can I help you, Sir…” the duke’s man asked, giving him a puzzled look. 

“Enis,” Simon answered. “And… I don’t know. I was just sleepless from my long ride, and was wandering the halls when I heard you just now.”

“Ah, sleeplessness. That one I understand all too well,” the man answered cheerily, obviously more than a touch inebriated. “For me, it's the dreams, you know?”

Simon nodded, even though he didn’t. He slept like a baby. Only those with tortured souls are filled with nightmares, he reflected as he studied the man’s dark aura.

Physically, he seemed harmless, but even if he hadn’t killed Simon once before, Simon would have known to be careful of him. He had one of the darkest souls Simon had ever had the misfortune to encounter, and even without his personal interest, he would have gone out of his way to strike the man down.

“For me, I find reading helps clear the mind,” Mr. Bryer said, gesturing to the nearest bookshelf of the duke’s well-appointed study. “Anything to take my mind off of other matters. I’ve worked my way through his works on history and moved on to poetry, but if you—”

“I’m a student of history myself,” Simon nodded, moving closer to the shelf to examine the titles without entirely taking his eyes off the shadowy figure. 

“Oh, how rare, I heard that Whitecloaks were warriors, not scholars.”

Simon was tempted to explain the tongueless librarians that staffed the black library, even though he knew he wasn’t allowed to. However, before he could decide on his response, Mr. Bryer said, “What are your opinions on those pesky horse lords from the north? Why do they come south with such regularity?”

Because they need slaves to power their dark magics, Simon thought before giving an answer more rooted in intraclan rivalries. He’d never actually had someone to talk to about the Murani. So, he talked at length about their capitals, leaving out only specifics about the Magi. He probably said too much, but the man he was talking to didn’t object or seem surprised. Instead, his smile only widened.  

“Very good. You really are a reader. Few are the people who even know about those strange pyramids. Call me Willis,” the courtier said, pouring him a drink. Simon had the man’s attention, but he couldn’t decide how he felt about that.

Simon took it, and after a brief toast, he took a healthy swallow. Its smoothness and its warmth were hard not to appreciate, and the two continued their conversation about history, which wasn’t a topic he got the chance to talk about very often, despite the fact that he’d learned much of it through books and his own travels. 

When Willis brought up a particular point about an Ionian myth, Simon explained that it wasn’t how the people of that country thought about it at all. Truthfully, he was enjoying it more than he ever expected; he was certainly enjoying the talk more than the brandy, despite himself. 

Sometimes during these exchanges, Simon would get the man to tell an anecdote or two, but never very specifically, and if he was too blunt, then Mr. Bryer would quickly change the topic. The closest he ever came to the truth was when he said, “I handle things for the duke. Things important enough for him to worry about, but minor enough that a man of his importance shouldn’t have to concern himself with them.”

The words didn’t tell Simon much, but the way they made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end told him everything that he needed to know. The man was dangerous. Still, when he spoke with passion, he didn’t quite seem that way. 

At one point, he began to quote an old Ionian poem about a hero who killed hundreds to save the throne. In a way, it reminded Simon of his last desperate battle to save his family in a timeline that no longer existed. That was when he decided to make his move. 

“Those aren’t the words of a man who kills frequently,” Simon said, when Willis was done speaking. 

“They aren’t, are they?” he agreed, pursing his lips. “I’d expect a Whitecloak like you to know a lot about that. Especially one with a recent wound he didn’t have the other day.”

Simon resisted the urge to touch his forehead and just said, “Bandits on the way back that wouldn’t take no for an answer. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Willis nodded along, and then after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, he said, “So is this where you tell me what this is really all about? This is about more than history. I can feel it.”

“It's about the history between us,” Simon said, standing nonchalantly to stretch. Mr. Bryer didn’t move, but Simon could see his posture straighten and his muscles tighten as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

“Between us? I don’t see how,” the other man answered, starting to rise himself. “I only saw you the once and—”

Simon didn’t wait for the excuse. Instead, he slammed Willis against the wall and drew the dagger on his waist. “You’re a sneak thief who garroted at least one man I know, and I want to know why.”

“I don’t know you!” the man cried out as loudly as he dared with Simon’s dagger inches from his eye. It was the truth, but it wasn’t any more relevant than the fact that he was at least a decade younger than he’d been when he’d strangled Simon to death.

“I know you, and that’s all that matters,” Simon growled as he held the man by the neck with the crook of his missing arm. “Now you can talk or scream while I teach you what a terrible thing it is to lose an eye.”

“Stop!” Mr. Bryer twisted in Simon’s grip, not to get free, but to try to escape the blade’s tip that was getting closer and closer. “Stop! I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. You don’t need to do this! We’re on the same side!”

“Your shadows are too dark for me to ever share them,” Simon answered, releasing him and pushing him to the floor of the sitting room. “But I’d love to know whose side it is you think that I’m on.”

“The knights,” he gasped, losing his cool completely as he crab walked backwards on hands and feet, never taking his eyes off Simon’s knife. “You’re a Whitecloak, aren’t you?”

“You say that like it’s supposed to mean something,” Simon answered, “But my order has nothing to do with toppling kingdoms. We hunt witches and…”

Simon’s words trailed off as Mr. Bryer let a high-pitched, crazed laugh slip from his mouth. “You really believe that, don’t you?” he asked, recovering a moment later. 

Sometimes I don’t know what to believe, Simon thought. He didn’t say that, though. Instead, he kicked the man’s boot and said, “I’m running out of patience. Tell me what I want to know, or I'll force the words out of you.”