Kyra led him first to Captain Vandal.
The man was half-buried in wine.
He sat at a long wooden table in a side hall near the barracks, still clad in armor as though he had neither the will nor the discipline to remove it. A half-empty bottle stood beside him. His pauldrons were scratched, his gauntlets resting near the rim of a cup he had forgotten to lift. His expression was not drunken in the foolish sense, but heavy gloom settled into the lines of his face like frost into stone.
"This is Captain Vandal," Kyra said evenly. "He will explain what he witnessed." She stepped closer. "Captain Vandal. I require your attention. Now."
The captain raised his head slowly.
His gray eyes found Kyra first. her spectacles catching the torchlight, her red hair bound tightly behind her head. He straightened at once, rising from his chair despite the wine. His fist struck his chest in salute.
"Lady Secretary."
Only then did his gaze shift to Cendre.
The look was assessing. Searching. His eyes traveled over Cendre's cloak of plates, his armor, the absence of any Northern sigil. He frowned faintly, as though trying to recall a banner that was not there.
He found only a foreign knight dressed plainly but well.
"Captain," Kyra continued, "this is the inquisitor Her Grace has appointed to investigate the matter. Ser Cendre Dalens."
"Inquisitor?" Vandal repeated. His brow darkened. "An outsider?"
Kyra stepped closer to him, lowering her voice so that only the three of them could hear.
"She requires impartiality," she said quietly. "Ser Dalens will act as the Duchess's hand and eyes while he remains in the North. You are to assist him fully. All findings are to be reported through him to Her Grace."
Her tone was calm, but there was steel beneath it.
Cendre noticed the subtle tightening of Vandal's jaw.
The captain nodded once, stiffly. He did not like it. That much was evident. A Central free knight intruding upon Northern affairs and Northern grief was shameful.
But Cendre temporarily bore the signet ring of House Blanc upon his gloved hand, and that was enough.
"I shall obey the Duchess's command," Vandal said, the emphasis unmistakable. His loyalty was not to Cendre. It was to her.
Kyra turned to Cendre then.
"I trust," she said, adjusting her spectacles, "that you will prove worthy of the confidence placed in you."
Her eyes lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then she excused herself and left the hall, her steps measured, her back straight. Cendre stared at her plump ass long enough that it felt rude to do so.
When she was gone, the air shifted.
All politeness thinned.
Captain Vandal looked at Cendre plainly now, without the veil of courtesy.
"The affairs of the North," he said formally, though a barb edged his tone, "are best handled by those born to it. Icy's End does not require Central oversight."
"Indeed," Cendre replied calmly, taking a seat opposite him. "But duty is rarely concerned with preference. Mine is to examine what occurred, with clear sight and without bias."
He removed a small notebook and pencil from within his cloak and placed them on the table.
Vandal's glare sharpened.
Cendre ignored it.
Despite his earlier protests to this task given by the Duchess, there was truth that he enjoyed doing these tasks. At the Academy, he had taken on such work not merely out of curiosity, but also because of coin. Armor and plated cloaks did not purchase themselves. As a free knight, he had bargained with his family's head for some equipment in exchange for service once in a while.
And so far he had proven adept at completing these kinds of tasks. Well, at least Cendre thinks so.
"What the Duchess wants," Vandal muttered, "the Duchess gets. She suspects traitors where there are none."
"You saw no treachery?" Cendre asked, pencil poised.
"I only saw monsters," Vandal said flatly. "The huntsman Karlos saw them. Ser Sullybane saw them. Minions of the Icy Hell. No sane man would attack a company of fifty."
"But they did," Cendre replied evenly. "And you engaged them."
Vandal's teeth ground together.
"We fought them. Wounded them. Drove them back." His hand tightened around his cup. "But we claimed no corpses but our own."
"No bodies?" Cendre repeated, making note of it.
"None."
Cendre flipped to a clean sheet, then withdrew a larger piece of parchment from within his satchel.
"Describe them," he said. "In detail. Do not embellish."
Vandal hesitated, then nodded.
"Their limbs," he began slowly, "were wrong. Long. Jointed oddly. Not like a man's."
Cendre's pencil moved swiftly.
"They wore helmets carved with horns and antlers, some curved, some branching. Black stone weapons. Not iron. Not steel. Stone."
"Black stone?" Cendre asked without looking up.
"Like obsidian. But heavier."
"And their armor?"
"Layered hides. Furs. Pieces of bone." Vandal's voice lowered. "They moved in silence. Too much silence."
Cendre sketched as he listened. Swift lines formed shapes, from elongated limbs, horned helms, crude but brutal weapons. He adjusted proportions, adding texture where described.
By the time Vandal fell quiet, Cendre turned the parchment around.
"Like this?"
The captain leaned forward.
His expression shifted.
The drawing was life-like in proportion, the unnatural posture captured in subtle exaggeration. The horned helm curved sharply over shadowed eyes. The black stone blade looked heavy, jagged.
Vandal stared.
For a moment, suspicion flickered across his face.
"You've seen them," he said quietly.
"No," Cendre replied evenly. "I just drew what you described."
Vandal's eyes narrowed, uncertain whether to be offended or impressed.
"It is close," he admitted after a moment. "Too close."
Cendre studied his reaction carefully.
"Did they speak?" he asked.
"No."
"War cries?"
"None."
"Tracks left behind?"
"Yes. But shallow. As if they weighed less than they should."
Cendre made another note.
"Captain," he said after a pause, "when you found the Duke, did the wounds resemble those of these weapons?"
Vandal hesitated.
"The arm," he said slowly, "was severed clean."
"Cleanly?" Cendre pressed.
"Yes."
Cendre glanced briefly at the sketched blade.
Jagged stone would not cut cleanly.
Unless sharpened beyond expectation.
Or replaced.
He folded the parchment carefully.
"I will need to speak with Ser Sullybane. And Karlos."
"You will," Vandal said, though reluctance lingered in his voice.
Cendre rose.
As he did, he noticed Vandal watching him, less hostile, but somewhat confused.
Cendre found the infirmary in the lower wing of the castle, where the stone walls were thicker and the air carried the mingled scents of herbs, oil, and boiled linen.
Master Kerfel, physician and Master of the Palace, was bent over a guardsman laid upon a narrow cot.
"Ser, pardon me," the physician said without looking up. "I would finish tending this man before I attend to you."
He wrapped clean cloth around the guard's forearm with practiced precision. The wound itself had been washed thoroughly. The sharp sting of alcohol hung in the air, almost overpowering the subtler fragrances of rosemary and crushed juniper.
Cendre inclined his head and waited.
While he did, he allowed his gaze to roam.
The infirmary was well-appointed, better than many he had seen in Central towns. Shelves lined the walls, each neatly arranged with labeled jars of dried leaves, powdered minerals, tinctures sealed with wax. Mortars and pestles of varying sizes sat on a long side table, their stone surfaces stained by years of grinding. A copper basin gleamed near the hearth, where water simmered gently over coals. Clean bandages were stacked in orderly piles, and the cots, though simple, were furnished with thick woolen blankets to ward off the northern chill.
The Blancs did not neglect their wounded. Especially those they prized.
After some time, Cendre dragged a wooden stool closer and sat, hands resting lightly on his knees, watching the physician work.
"I was surprised," Master Kerfel said at last, tying off the final knot. "To learn that an alumnus of St. Alfons would be investigating the deaths of the Duke and the Heir."
There it was again.
The titles. Never the names.
It had begun to grate on him.
"Is the refusal to speak their names a custom?" Cendre asked evenly.
The physician paused.
For a moment, he looked troubled, as though unsure whether Cendre's question was ignorance or disrespect.
"It is custom," Kerfel replied carefully. "One does not speak the names of the departed so soon. Particularly not when their deaths were… violent."
He rose and began cleaning his instruments.
"To utter their names before the mourning period ends is to disturb their rest. Thirty days, at minimum, before the names may be spoken again."
Cendre nodded slowly.
"I see."
The North wrapped even grief in ritual.
"Is Ser Sullybane here?" he asked. "And the huntsman?"
"Yes," Kerfel said. "But I fear you will gain little from Ser Sullybane."
"Why?"
"He is deathly ill. Not in body, but in spirit." The physician's tone softened. "Guilt consumes him. He wakes screaming. Nightmares seize him. Even wine fails to quiet them. I suspect he will carry this fright for the remainder of his life."
"He has PTSD," Cendre muttered under his breath.
"PTS?" Kerfel turned, curious. "What term is that, Ser?"
Cendre shook his head lightly. "Nothing of consequence."
The physician studied him a moment longer, then let the matter drop.
"As for Karlos," Kerfel continued, "the frost has taken several of his fingers and toes. He was not clad in steel and fur as the others were. It is a miracle he lives. Had the cold not frozen his wounds when it did, he would have bled to death."
Cendre exhaled quietly.
"Then questioning them now would be unproductive."
"Cruel, perhaps," Kerfel added.
Cendre tapped a finger against his knee in thought.
"When they were brought here," he asked, "did they carry anything? Equipment? Personal effects beyond what they wore?"
"No," the physician replied. "Only what remained on their persons. Armor. Weapons. Nothing more."
If he could not speak to them, perhaps their quarters might yield something. Letters. Notes. Anything overlooked.
He was, he knew, grasping at straws. But straws sometimes floated where heavier truths sank.
"These men will need time," Kerfel said, as though reading his thoughts. "And even if their bodies mend, their minds may not."
"Master Kerfel," Cendre said lightly, shifting the subject. "The medicine the Lord and the Heir sought."
The physician's fingers stilled atop the cork of a small glass vial.
"Yes," Cendre added before protest could rise. "I am aware of what it was."
Kerfel hesitated. His thumb pressed against the cork, turning it slowly.
"It is not a topic for idle discussion."
"I do not deal in idle discussion."
A silence passed between them.
"It is effective," Kerfel admitted at last. "Or so the tomes claim. When prepared properly, with the correct herbs, it may revitalize a man's vigor." His expression dimmed. "It is a cruel jest of fate that two highborn men would perish pursuing such a remedy."
Cruel or convenient.
"I advise you not to dwell on it, Ser," Kerfel added. "Whispers travel quickly in the North."
"I will not spread them," Cendre said. "But I must understand every piece of this matter."
The physician studied him carefully.
"It seems to me," Kerfel said after a moment, "that the Duchess sees shadows where there may be none."
"Perhaps," Cendre allowed. "But every avenue deserves examination. Possibilities must be measured before they are dismissed."
Kerfel gave a small nod.
"You speak like a scholar."
"I speak like a man who prefers facts to superstition."
The physician almost smiled.
"Then I hope facts serve you better than spirits and horned devils."
Cendre rose from his stool.
"I have taken enough of your time. Thank you, Master Kerfel."
"It is no burden," Kerfel replied kindly. "If either gentleman wakes and is fit to speak, I shall send a servant to you."
"I would appreciate that."
Cendre inclined his head.
"May your God keep you."
Kerfel returned the gesture. "And may my God greet yours."
With that, Cendre turned and left the infirmary.
As he stepped back into the colder corridor, the warmth of herbs and hearthfire fading behind him, his thoughts remained unsettled.
Monsters with horned helms.
Cleanly severed limbs.
A remedy for failing manhood.
And a Duchess who refused to speak her father's name.
The North truly was steeped in ritual and ice.
Still, how do I get more information?
Cendre asked himself, unsure where to start with two of the witnesses ill and unconscious.