The strange pair in the room speak to one another calmly, unaware that their audience has grown. “Why the Fifth?” Palamedes asks next, hands folded in his lap, his expression unreadable. And though the woman, the so-called Dulcinea, tries to hem and haw, she finally admits why she murdered Abigail Pent and Magnus Quinn. Pent was good at talking to spirits—more than that, she was a historian, someone who could have easily blown this woman’s cover.
Palamedes seems satisfied with this answer, but ultimately unmoved.
“What was your second question?” the woman asks.
“Where is she?” Palamedes answers quietly, so quietly that those standing at the door might have to strain to hear him. “What have you done with Dulcinea Septimus?”
“Oh, she’s still here,” says the woman who is definitely not Dulcinea with a flutter of her hand.
From there, the story pours out of her in waves, each one growing with momentum. A dam has broken in this creature, this Lyctor, and she talks about the perfectly polite conversation she had with the real Dulcinea Septimus when she intercepted her ship on the way to Canaan House, how she killed her and her cavalier, and took her place, and burned her body. And why? Why come back here, why pick off the House heirs one by one?
“This wasn’t really about any of you, not personally,” she says, as though that would mitigate her evil deeds. “I knew that if I ruined his Lyctor plans, I’d draw him back to the system.” Without actually getting louder, her voice seems to grow in power as she speaks. “I’ll give the the King Undying, the Necrolord Prime, the Resurrector, my lord and master front-row seats as I shatter his houses one by one and find out how many of them it takes before he breaks and crosses over.”
“Why would one of the Emperor’s Lyctors hate him?” Palamedes asks in that same dangerously calm voice.
“Hate him? I have loved the man for ten thousand years. We all loved him, every one of us. We worshipped him like a king. Like a god! Like a brother.”
They continue to talk, but Palamedes is barely listening. Those that know him well might even notice the look of concentration on his face—a slight tightness in the mouth, a hardening of his jaw, and most significantly of all, a trickle of blood down the back of his neck.
“You’re taking this much more sensibly than I thought you would,” the Lyctor is saying. “I assumed you would try something silly when you realized she was dead.”
“I wouldn’t ever try to do something silly,” Palamedes answers lightly. “I made the decision to kill you the moment I knew there was no chance to save her. That’s all.”
no subject
The strange pair in the room speak to one another calmly, unaware that their audience has grown. “Why the Fifth?” Palamedes asks next, hands folded in his lap, his expression unreadable. And though the woman, the so-called Dulcinea, tries to hem and haw, she finally admits why she murdered Abigail Pent and Magnus Quinn. Pent was good at talking to spirits—more than that, she was a historian, someone who could have easily blown this woman’s cover.
Palamedes seems satisfied with this answer, but ultimately unmoved.
“What was your second question?” the woman asks.
“Where is she?” Palamedes answers quietly, so quietly that those standing at the door might have to strain to hear him. “What have you done with Dulcinea Septimus?”
“Oh, she’s still here,” says the woman who is definitely not Dulcinea with a flutter of her hand.
From there, the story pours out of her in waves, each one growing with momentum. A dam has broken in this creature, this Lyctor, and she talks about the perfectly polite conversation she had with the real Dulcinea Septimus when she intercepted her ship on the way to Canaan House, how she killed her and her cavalier, and took her place, and burned her body. And why? Why come back here, why pick off the House heirs one by one?
“This wasn’t really about any of you, not personally,” she says, as though that would mitigate her evil deeds. “I knew that if I ruined his Lyctor plans, I’d draw him back to the system.” Without actually getting louder, her voice seems to grow in power as she speaks. “I’ll give the the King Undying, the Necrolord Prime, the Resurrector, my lord and master front-row seats as I shatter his houses one by one and find out how many of them it takes before he breaks and crosses over.”
“Why would one of the Emperor’s Lyctors hate him?” Palamedes asks in that same dangerously calm voice.
“Hate him? I have loved the man for ten thousand years. We all loved him, every one of us. We worshipped him like a king. Like a god! Like a brother.”
They continue to talk, but Palamedes is barely listening. Those that know him well might even notice the look of concentration on his face—a slight tightness in the mouth, a hardening of his jaw, and most significantly of all, a trickle of blood down the back of his neck.
“You’re taking this much more sensibly than I thought you would,” the Lyctor is saying. “I assumed you would try something silly when you realized she was dead.”
“I wouldn’t ever try to do something silly,” Palamedes answers lightly. “I made the decision to kill you the moment I knew there was no chance to save her. That’s all.”