Ghosts of the Erlyn (Catalyst Book 3) C.J. Aaron (mobi reader .txt) 📖

“If that is all, I can easily oblige,” she said with a small chuckle and a wink. “Would you prefer lodging with the comforts of companionship?”

It was Andr's turn to laugh at the comment.

“No, thank you,” he replied. “We'd prefer lodging that was slightly more discreet if you still have any available.”

“I've tried for cycles to get your stubborn mercenary to take me up on the offer, yet the answer has always been the same,” she spoke to Ryl with a grin. “Take a lesson from him, my young friend.”

As she took a large sip of her wine, Ryl was surprised to see a flash of unbridled emotion register across her face. The moisture that welled up in the corners of her eyes disappeared after a long blink.

“You're one of the last of a dying breed, my friend,” Breila responded. “Your usual room has sat vacant nearly as long as you have been gone.”

“Thank you, Breila,” Andr said with a genuine show of emotion that Ryl rarely witnessed from the hardened mercenary. “Over the last cycle, I've come to realize that there is far more at work in Damaris than meets the eye. There are far more wonders in this world. And there are more people left worth fighting for.”

“Please make no mention of it. It is I who am forever in your debt,” she acknowledged.

Ryl watched as a profound look passed between the pair. Andr nodded his head subtly, and a small smile encroached on the corners of his lips.

“What news from the city over the past cycle?” Ryl asked politely, changing the conversation. “I’m afraid we've been out of touch for quite some time.”

With her lingering gaze still resting on Andr, Breila leaned back, resting her head against the high back of her chair. She stroked a long gray lock of stray hair absently with her free hand.

“The city has been in a nearly perpetual state of upheaval since the last Harvest,” she sighed. “The unexpected actions of the captain caused quite the tremor. We still feel the reverberations today. There were those who called for his head.”

“Was the captain deposed?” Ryl asked curiously. He tried to maintain a straight face and an even keel. He was determined not to let his emotions get the better of him.

“Had not the news of the recently deceased Master reached the populace in time, it’s likely he would have,” Breila related. “There are still rumors that say it was the captain himself who buried his blade in the master and his henchman. Others say it was a vengeful spirit. I’m afraid none can say for sure. When the truth surrounding the disappearance of the previous sub-master leaked as well, the revulsion spilled over.”

Andr exchanged a quick glance with Ryl as Breila continued.

“A rift has formed in what had been a complacent city. A distinct split defined by the sentiment toward an unseen few. The captain made his stance crystal clear when he shook the hand of the final tribute of the Harvest. His stunt gained him immediate notoriety. He became a hero to some, a pariah to most. Lucky for him, a good portion of the guard he captained stood beside him, whether for sentiment or loyalty sake.”

“What did the King have to say about it?” Andr inquired.

Breila chuckled quietly to herself.

“The King was furious as were a large number of the nobles,” she acknowledged, her eyes wandering as her voice trailed off on a tangent. “Their agitation has required calming. We’ve never been busier catering to the pillars of society as they drowned their sorrows in the comfort of deft hands.”

Her eyes refocused as she looked between Ryl and Andr, continuing her tale.

“The previous master, Delsith, had shared a similar sentiment as that of the King,” she confided. “Their undying hatred toward the tributes held nearly no bounds. The city has become unsafe for those who openly express mild or indifferent sentiments toward the tributes. Ridicule amongst their peers is commonplace, and so to—to a startling degree—has been violence. The message from the King has been clear. The assaults have gone unprosecuted, conveniently buried behind layer after layer of political clout.”

“Has the captain not sought for their persecution himself?” Andr asked.

“He has,” Breila explained. “As a result, a handful of his more vocal supporters have vanished under increasingly disturbing circumstances. The King appointed a Councilor of The Stocks, a vile man by the name of Sir Maklan to oversee the area before the situation grew further out of control.”

She shook her head at the mention of his name. Ryl looked on curiously as anger grew momentarily in her eyes.

“That man is a monster. Most of the girls are too terrified to go near him when he comes calling. He has a penchant for violence and a superiority that knows no bounds,” she hissed. “He quickly blamed the disappearances on dereliction of duty and their cases were closed. There was no question that their faces will never again be seen among the living. The captain has been all but stripped of his authority. While he retains symbolic command over the guard and the title of Master of The Stocks, he’s merely a figurehead. All meaningful orders now originate with the councilor.”

Though he was not entirely unsurprised, the news unsettled Ryl. The simple act of a handshake, though only the tip of the iceberg as far as his deeds had been concerned, had been a tipping point for so many. The captain had to have known that his action would draw the ire of the nobles and the King, yet he had done so willingly.

Ryl was awash with conflicting emotions. On one hand, he was energized that the support for the captain had been profound. He knew that not all would change their minds so easily. That the captain had surrounded himself, surrounded the tributes with those who were loyal, or even shared a similar sentiment with him, was encouraging. The possibility that the captain