Nightsworn | The Whispering Wall #2

Fifty Two: Close Encounter

It wasn't the first time Arlen had severely questioned his own judgement. It probably wouldn't be the last, either. Still he didn't move from his place.

All around him was the aftermath of chaos. In some places in the city, he knew the riots still raged. Subdued as it was by the circumstances that had let to the revolt in the first place, it was enough to have the rest of the city cowering in their houses. Yet in the quarters around the castle it had gone suddenly, inexplicably quiet overnight. There was no one on the streets, except those moving debris or broken furniture from the roads, and the usual supply wagons rattling back and forth. It would have been unsettling if it hadn't provided him with such a perfect opportunity.

While he had still had his leg, he would have thought nothing of grabbing this chance with both hands. Now familiar, hated doubts rose as he stepped out into the road and began to walk towards the house at the end of the row. The windows were dark, as they had been for the last hour, but he still ran through all the ways this could go wrong and what he would do if it did. Most of those solutions boiled down to 'not a lot'.

Because scaling the fence at the back had been out of the question, he had to risk the front door. He looked up and down the row and into every window, quick and appraising. He had worn the biggest hood he owned in the hopes that it would confuse any onlookers in the dark, but he would still rather have no witnesses. If anyone looked too closely they'd remember that the resident of this house didn't need a walking stick.

The lock gave easily to his tools; he supposed if you had magic, intruders weren't as much of a worry as they might have been to others. Arlen smiled wryly at that as he stepped inside. He had never been into the witch man's house and probably never would again, so he took his own vindictive pleasure in inspecting the place.

There wasn't anything to see in the entrance hall, but the front room had been made over as a kind of study. Arlen guessed this was the work of the current lodger. He had heard convincing rumours that Yddris himself was illiterate, and that didn't tally with the sheer number of books lying around. There wasn't much furniture save for a chair and a fireplace, so the books lay in piles on the floor, some open still and others bristling with markers. As he passed, he caught glimpses of titles about demons and the Isolation, and piles of books on magic theory that made him wrinkle his nose. Others were compendiums of herb lore, annotated over every inch in a meticulous hand. Plants lay in bunches on the hearth stones. He might have lingered to find out more about the other witch man, but he was conscious that he had already lost a lot of time waiting outside. He hurried into the hall beyond.

Jordan's room was the only one with a door. It was the only room in the hall, both of the other exits leading to stairs. Arlen wasn't desperate enough to brave the stairs that led down; they were treacherously steep even for someone without a fake leg. Inside he found a desk and a stripped bed. The desk was spattered in ink and the wall above it plastered with drawings of strange symbols. Despite himself, he shuddered. He was well used to the idea that his apprentice had magic, but the symbols were a step too far for him, a primal kind of uneasiness around the unknown. A slightly open drawer caught his eye. He gratefully tore his gaze from the strange patterns and tugged it open.

"Of course," Arlen muttered, when he found the thing stuffed with journals, ink and pens. There were also some sticks and lengths of string, which he presumed were for that mangy little animal Jordan kept. With a sigh, he grabbed a journal off the top of the pile and stuffed it into an inside pocket of his cloak. It would have to do. A scan of the room showed him nothing else of interest.

He froze when he heard the front door open. Soft footsteps followed. A female voice hummed as they entered, and Arlen frowned. The Unspoken living here wasn't female, and if it wasn't the Unspoken he still had a chance of getting away without incident.