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he great fortress was called the Citadel by the locals. It was actually named for the Unseen who were believed to have drawn it fully formed from the earth like some sleepy giant of ancient lore. It crouched alone upon a long stretch of golden beach on the Watchtower Coast. From a distance it seemed to float, its base impossibly small for the wide sweep of ramparts, halls, and keeps stacked one atop the other. Towers ringed its precarious crown. On a fair day the wind snapped and cracked through their banners, proclaiming the might of the White Mantle.
The Citadel of the Unseen had but one entrance. The gaping maw of the arch was filled with the iron lattice of a portcullis. Within that low chamber curled a flight of stairs to another fortified gate that lay within. Barnacles clung to the ironwork and drifts of sand were swept inside the gatehouse. At high tide the chamber was submerged. If one missed the tide, one could neither enter nor retreat from its fastness. By holy edict, all prisoners of importance where brought here. None had escaped save through death.
Confessor Scarpia had made the fortress his base of operations. That morning he stood in the yard amidst the four towers and their flying banners. He gazed down upon the work gangs combing the exposed sand for seaweed, crabs and clams. From this vantage they seemed little more than ants and elicited the same degree of concern. There were thirty chained in three lines. They moved in an orderly and methodical way, perfectly trained and obedient.
Savant Luchesa stood at attention behind him, her black and yellow garb fluttering softly in the wind. For a few moments longer he gazed over the battlements to watch the procession of the slaves. He felt her pale eyes upon him, vying with the languid burn of her elemental focus. Scarpia reflected upon her service over the past year. She was loyal and effective, seeding fear in their enemies and encouraging obedience in the peasants. She was also the public face of the White Mantle with the unenviable job of risking herself to deliver his edicts into the reeking serpent lairs of the Chosen.
“Have you news?” he said at last, knowing by the cautious set of her demeanor she feared his response.
“He has vanished and is believed dead, Holiness.”
Luchesa’s pale hands tightened over an ornate Canthan lacquer-work box.
“I see.”
“I made a direct inquiry of the leader of the alliance.”
“You revealed that one of our spies was among them?”
“No, I had visited him before to demand that he disclose information about the size of his alliance in accordance with Krytan law. This time I accused him of sheltering a wanted man. I believed it would reveal whether or not our operative still lived.”
“I see,” Scarpia said darkly, “Do you believe the guild leader was fooled?”
“He is a mesmer, but he honored my desire for a private audience and I used the techniques I was taught to shield my mind. He presented me with this box and informed me Conrad had departed in haste and left this behind.”
“How considerate,” Confessor Scarpia said, his voice growing taut with rage. Even before Luchesa was finished delivering her report, he knew it was not going to end well, “Was Conrad successful in placing the ethereal beacon?”
“I did not detect it, but I was given little opportunity to seek for it. I was also led to believe the Lady Isabeau was no longer on the island. Master Bei indicated she had been removed to Cantha and was staying with a sister guild in Kaineng.”
“What do you suppose is in that box, Savant?”
“I know not, Holiness. Master Bei made it clear to me that it would open for you alone.”
“Then I will open it.”
“Holiness, it could be a trap.”
“I trust you showed it to Gascon?”
“Yes, Holiness. He detected no malignant spells.”
“Master Bei is a mesmer. They tend to prefer something more personal than a simple working. Set it there on the flagstones. I will open it.”
Luchesa seemed shaken, but she set the ornate box on the ground and backed away. Slowly, carefully, he touched the air-tight lid and felt it give with a small click and a faint shimmer of a dissipating enchantment. He had to admire an adversary with an eye for beauty and a well crafted spell. It was a shame he and his alliance had chosen the losing side of the conflict.
An unpleasant odor of decay burst from the confines of the box, as if meat had been rotting for a long time in the putrefying warmth of Kryta. There was something vaguely melon-sized wrapped in black velvet and a small scroll rested atop the suspicious bulge of cloth. It bore a glob of red sealing wax upon which was impressed a symbol of an open palm.
“Read it to me,” Scarpia said coldly, noticing that Luchesa had gone pale. She snatched the scroll away from the reeking box and broke the seal, unrolling it quickly.
“Confessor Scarpia,
It is with profound regret that I must inform you of the death of your servant. Please find his head enclosed. I hope this will not be necessary in future.
Sincerely,
Bei Zhou An.”
Scarpia said nothing, only gazed off over the sea, his eyes tracing the line of molten silver where the water met the sky. He wondered where Conrad had tripped up, how it was he had endured unnoticed in a household full of mesmers and yet had crumbled under Master Bei’s scrutiny. For nearly a year Conrad had read every scrap of correspondence entering or leaving the estate without drawing suspicion. That was what had lead to Broinn’s exposure and eventual capture. Conrad was able to prove that Lord De Minuit’s son had limited contact with the inner circle of the Shining Blade. Sadly, Broinn had taken his secrets with him to the grave and Tristan had revealed nothing useful under interrogation.
“Do you plan to retaliate, Holiness?”
“In time, Savant. Why do you suppose Master Bei killed Conrad?”
“He knew too much. He was a spy, after all. It is no more or less than what we would do were a spy discovered in our ranks.”
“That means Master Bei has something worth hiding. I doubt Isabeau was sent to Cantha, he would hardly tell us the truth and he must know of the bounty.”
“Agreed, Holiness. My people have been watching the portals in several towns. There has been no sign of her.”
“We are no closer to finding the Shining Blade’s base of operation. Let us at least answer Master Bei’s insult.”
“Yes, Holiness.”
Scarpia recalled the way Luchesa had devoured Tristan with her eyes the day he been brought to the Citadel in chains. The man was useless to them now. Normally, Scarpia would send such prisoners to the Bloodstone. On occasion, they could be put to a higher use.
“Tell your people that I offer one platinum for each head gathered from among those who serve Master Bei and ten times that for each alliance member. And if you deliver Master Bei’s head to me, I will give you Lord De Minuit’s son to do with as you please.”
A crooked smile momentarily drifted onto Savant Luchesa’s pitiless lips.
“It shall be done, Holiness.”
“And with luck, Isabeau shall be found among that nest of serpents. Her bounty still stands. Make this known to your men.”
Confessor Scarpia turned away from Luchesa, his hands knitted behind his back. Isabeau had haunted his dreams and waking thoughts since the moment he had first gazed upon her. He recalled the way she had trembled like a frightened doe in her bonds and the softness of her cheek beneath his fingers. His body burned with lust. He would have her. No one denied Confessor Scarpia his due.
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