A House Divided by Nicole Ciacchella (the giving tree read aloud txt) 📕

Closing her notebook, she tucked it away in her jacket.

"Sorry to trouble you. Thank you for your assistance," the chief said.

Casting a sidelong glance at Kila, Cianne watched his eyes slide from her to the chief to Burl.

I think it's past time he and I had a talk, she thought, eyes lowered as they left. Under cover of her lashes, she peered at Kila's back as it disappeared through the door, and her heart did something it had no business doing.

 

 

Chapter 10

 

 

 

Morning wasn't far off by the time Kila returned to his lodgings, but he was too keyed up to sleep. Changing back into his looser garb, he stepped out to his garden to finish what he had started before Burl had knocked on his door.

He had accompanied the chief and Burl back to the station, where they left Toran Stowley's body in the care of the Healers. Incongruous as the name sounded when it came to those Healers who worked with Enforcement, their unsurpassed knowledge of human anatomy was an indispensable tool in the Enforcers' mandate to fight crime. If anyone could pinpoint the exact cause of death, it would be them, though their preliminary examination didn't turn up any evidence contradictory to the established narrative. Krozemund, the Chief Anatomical Examiner, assured Chief Flim that he would consult with an Apothecist as necessary to confirm the nature of the substance in the vial, but he said he could typically discern what someone had ingested by the effects it had on the body.

Krozemund had headed the team of Healers since before Kila's first tenure in Cearova, and Kila had never heard anything untoward about the man. All signs pointed to his feeling no particular loyalty to anyone. Healers weren't incorruptible, but their accepted collective ethos demanded that they treat all victims of ill health or injury, regardless of the person's social status or economic means. Most of the Healers Kila had known took this vow very seriously, considering themselves duty-bound to serve Aima, Lady of Life, and their sense of mission meant that they were renowned for their resistance to corruption. He was confident they could trust Krozemund's judgment.

Burl had left shortly after the Examiner shared his initial impressions, ordering Kila to report for duty bright and early the next morning. She was obviously anxious to close the case, and Kila couldn't entirely blame her. He hadn't the slightest idea of her agenda, but no matter what it was she hoped to achieve, the undeniable truth was that she would be under immense pressure from the House Elders to wrap this up and quickly. Kila imagined they would hunker down in their Council Hall all night in order to strategize as to how they intended to handle the news of Toran Stowley's death and its disbursal through the city.

Kila had lingered at the station, wondering if the chief might approach him, but she had done nothing more than nod in his direction when she also left.

Transitioning from position three to position four, he considered everything that had happened that night. Was he seeing sinister intent everywhere he looked? Nothing about this case seemed immediately out of the ordinary, as sad as that fact might be, but something about it bothered him. The necessary parts were all there, neatly laid out in the proper order, and he wasn't certain whether he ought to read into that.

"The position of your left hand is a bit off," a soft voice floated down to him from his garden wall.

Startled, he dropped form, snapping into a defensive stance. It had been a long while since he had felt he ought to be on his guard at all times, and he found the reminder unpleasant. Why had he wished to be back in this wolves' den?

"Might you extend the courtesy of making yourself known?" he asked, fixing his eyes on the small, dark shadow at the top of his wall.

"Best if we don't do this here," the voice responded. "I mean you no harm, but I don't expect you to trust my word."

He said nothing in response to this, waiting for her—he had discerned that the voice was female, if nothing else—to show herself.

She landed on his lawn without making a sound. Rising from a crouch, she slowly started toward him, hands held parallel to her shoulders, palms facing him so that he could see she was unarmed. However, he wasn't willing to trust that she didn't have a weapon hidden about her person, and he maintained his position.

A rippling shadow, she moved over toward his lodgings, not heading for the door but for the light spilling from one of his windows. Illumination washed over her, exposing her slight form. She wore a tight, black leather vest laced all the way up to its high neck. Black breeches covered her legs, tucked into fitted black leather boots. A hood was attached to her vest, and she held her hands up until he nodded, then she reached to push back the hood, revealing her face to him at last.

"Miss Wyland?" he asked. Confusion swept over him, followed closely by a sense of wariness.

At the sound of her name, her eyes darted around the garden as if she feared enemies might be lurking behind his feral rhododendron. She jerked her head in the direction of his lodgings, raising her eyebrows inquiringly. He gave up his stance and went to the door, opening it and beckoning her in.

"I wasn't aware that the Houses were so well-versed in the positions of the deshya," he said, his sense of wariness increasing.

Few foreigners were familiar with the fighting style native to his homeland. Battle Masters' gifts were such that they could never have any real inherent advantage over a Battle Master opponent from another land, so each realm had developed its own distinctive fighting style to compensate.

Myrshan Battle Masters had created a style for their sole use, and non-Adepts were prohibited from using it under penalty of imprisonment. Legend had it that the deshya had evolved from the Battle Masters' form, developed by a young man jealous of his sister's powerful Battle Master gifts. Decade after decade he had practiced, tooling and retooling the deshya, until he honed skills so unknown to her that he bested her in a duel to the death.

The legend was a load of bollocks, as far as Kila was concerned. Ordinary people could certainly learn how to fight and become very skilled at it, but no matter how fancy their fighting style they could never hope to be a match for a highly gifted Battle Master. In his view, it was a story the non-Adepts amongst his people told in order to reassure themselves that they weren't completely at the mercy of their Adept counterparts.

"The House knows nothing about it," she said, watching his face.

"Last I checked, you're a part of the House."

"So you've now discovered."

Frowning, he stared her directly in the eye. Why the song and dance, he wondered. It had been a long night, and he would have preferred her to just come out with it.

"You're the Enforcer. Assemble the pieces," she suggested.

Pressing her hands together, she lowered her head so that her chin rested on the tips of her fingers. Inhaling deeply, she parted her hands, her right extending out to her side in a fluid motion as she bent her left at the elbow. The fingers on her left hand splayed elegantly, weaving patterns through the air as they came to rest near her side. Her feet were shoulder-width apart, and she rotated her upper body, simultaneously sliding her right leg behind her while bending her left at the knee, her upper body twisted so that she faced left.

Misdirection. Anyone unfamiliar with the dancelike movements was liable not to notice what she'd been doing with her right hand. She pointed her dagger at Kila's chest, and he could tell from the look in her eyes that she knew he would be able to disarm her, if he so desired. Moving with catlike grace, she stood upright again, sliding the dagger back into the sheath concealed up her sleeve.

Her form, it was so familiar. Closing his eyes, he watched the scenes playing out behind his lids. A little, pert face screwed up in determination as she tried to imitate his movements. That same face beamed with delight when he praised her for a perfectly executed kick. She had hungered for his approval. Like a wilted flower exposed to the sun at long last, she had directed her face toward him, eager to bask in the light.

"Annalith," he said. "That never was your name, was it? I thought as much, though I didn't want to press you on the point. You were a skittish creature as it was."

"It was my mother's name," she said, and he heard the catch in her voice.

Wonder filled him as he opened his eyes and beheld the grown woman before him. She hadn't grown much taller since he'd last seen her, and her frame was almost as diminutive as it had been then. He estimated her height at five feet, which made her more than a foot shorter than him. Her deep, deep blue eyes studied him as he studied her, and he could have kicked himself for having failed to recognize the distinctive color. But, then, his gifts weren't foolproof. Perhaps the greatest danger to an Enforcer came about when they forgot that they couldn't see the clues if they didn't look.

He did remember, though, that those eyes hadn't been quite so thickly fringed by such long, black lashes when she'd been younger. Her hair was pulled back in a functional knot, and it was difficult to see the color clearly in the dim light of the room, but it seemed darker than it had been when she was younger, the shade now closer to mahogany. Her features were delicate, her cheekbones more prominent, her nose more defined than in her youth. Had he examined her long enough, he would have noticed the similarities. It had been many years since he had last seen her, but he had never forgotten about her.

Though he had to admit it was jarring to try to reconcile the sweet, fragile, innocent child he remembered with the lovely woman who stood before him.

"I didn't think you would return," she said, and he detected a note of hurt.

"Neither did I," he said. "And my departure was rather more sudden than I might have liked."

"Where have you been?"

"Here, there, and everywhere that doesn't have a name," he said, the tang of bitterness on his tongue.

That was indiscreet of him. He didn't know this woman, hadn't even really known her when she had been a girl. Oh, he had known she was lying about her identity. Despite its rumpled and patched state, her clothing had always been far too fine for that of a street urchin, and he had suspected the name she had given him was a fake, but he'd had no idea she belonged to House Staerleigh, and he could tell by her face that she had wanted it that way. But why?

"I didn't get the chance to say goodbye," she said.

Studying her, he took in the controlled expression, the determined set of her mouth, and knew that this was a woman who had spent many years disguising her feelings. She had been vulnerable when they had met, and he hadn't wanted to exploit that vulnerability. Prudence had told him to send her away, to not get involved, but she had seemed so alone that to ignore her would have been another cruel