I shook my head and said, “I don’t understand. What makes you think the Keeper is dead?”
“For one thing, I find it strange that Devereaux suddenly decided now was the time to open a new chapter of the Bloodthorn Order at Ouverham. Something has changed, and the most likely explanation is that Devereaux’s spies informed him of the emergency meeting the council held a few months ago. Rumor is there was some sort of unexpected change.”
“A change,” I repeated. “Like a sudden death?”
He nodded.
“So, then their search is pointless? If that’s true, then why has Devereaux Graves wasted two whole years waiting around at Ouverham College?”
“Devereaux is patient,” he said, dismissing my objections with a wave of his hand. “If he tracked the Keeper as far as the Isle of Lorn, he will remain until he knows what’s become ofthem. A year of waiting is nothing to someone like him. And if the Keeper does turn up dead, it’s likely that the Order will use that information to discover who has been named their Heir.”
“Their Heir?”
He nodded. “If the original Keeper is deceased, they will have bequeathed their responsibilities to an Heir. It isn’t necessarily someone blood-related, but it helps. Regardless of who it is, Devereaux will endeavor to find them.” He cast me a sidelong glance.
I let this last declaration settle over me like a dark shroud before I asked, “What happens if they find the Keeper’s heir?”
The look he gave me was answer enough. “They’ll likely torture a confession out of them and then dispose of the body,” he said.
Of course,I thought.It’s the secret that holds value, not the person in possession of it.
“But if, as you say, whatever secret the Keeper is guarding poses a threat to the council, why would they even bother hiding it in the first place? Why not destroy all evidence of a secret that could harm them?”
Casimir shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps the secret is kept for security purposes. In any case, we can surmise that the person charged with its safekeeping resides on the isle.”
I bit my lip anxiously, before continuing doggedly, “So, to clarify, you believe Devereaux wants to force the Keeper’s heir to spill whatever secret might harm the council—and then kill them?” I could see a gaping problem in this logic. “Won’t the council realize Devereaux did this and come after him?”
Casimir shrugged. “They would probably discover Devereaux’s betrayal eventually, but not before he unearthed their secret.”
I nodded pensively. Secrets were power. Leverage. And killing the Heir was certainly an effective way to cover histracks. Devereaux’s cruel calculation was apparent in every aspect of this plot.
“What about the Queen?” I asked. “How does she fit into all of this?”
“Queen Nymara Pax was the first Daemon in living memory to openly experiment with bloodmagic. She rose to power because of it, and then decreed that bloodmagic was forbidden to all others. She wanted to ensure she remained the most powerful among us, and so she forbade the practice or knowledge of it. Only softmagic—glamours, as we call them—are permitted. You might think this sounds like a generous policy, but I assure you, it’s anything but. Most Daemons don’t have access to the kind of softmagic that the Order wields. Siphoners, Bloodweavers, Morphers—they’re very rare among our kind.”
“Do you think the secret has something to do with Nymara, then?”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t put it past the council to keep something up their sleeves when it comes to her.”
“Devereaux must despise her,” I said, watching Casimir’s reaction closely. “I mean, she resides on the throne that was his true birthright.”
His face was carefully void of emotion, but something smoldered behind his eyes as he replied, “Devereaux held no love for Caladryn. And he has no mercy for anyone who stands between him and his claim to the throne, family or no.”
I considered this. All at once, the nature of our conversation struck me as utterly absurd.
Casimir stared at me in bewilderment. “Why are you laughing?”
“It’s just—it sounds like you’re living out the plot to some Medieval fairy tale,” I explained.
“More like a Greek tragedy,” he grumbled.
“There are no gods here,” I pointed out.
Casimir smiled at that. “Nor heroes,” he agreed.
“And—you’re not helping Devereaux search for the heir?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.
His expression went cold. “Why would you even ask me that?”