Lady Elowen stood quietly in the corner of the chamber, hands folded before her.
Though he bore the Duchess's ring, it did not grant him license to ransack a household like a brigand would. This was still their home. Even the Duchess, for all her authority, would not casually trample the sanctity of a noble's private quarters without cause.
The master bedroom was orderly. The mattress had been pressed smooth, the blankets drawn tight. Only one side bore the faint depression of habitual use. The other remained untouched. At first glance, it seemed the lady slept alone, but the smaller indentations near the center suggested otherwise. Children, perhaps. Seeking comfort in their father's absence.
Sullybane, whatever else he might be, was fortunate.
Cendre stepped toward the wooden drawers along the wall.
"Which of these are your husband's?" he asked.
"The one on the left, Ser," Lady Elowen replied, her voice carrying restrained hesitation.
It was understandable.
Even he would not welcome a stranger rifling through his belongings either. And he certainly had no interest in stumbling upon the lady's garments by mistake.
He opened the left drawer carefully, noting the weight before fully sliding it free.
Inside lay a leather-bound journal, several modest pieces of jewelry, and a bundle of letters sealed with the Sullybane sigil, most already opened, wax broken cleanly.
"Madam," he said without turning, "are you familiar with the contents of these letters?"
She stepped forward, taking them gently from his hand before nodding.
"I am, Ser. They are from family and associates. You may read them."
There was no indignation in her tone now.
She understood.
This was not about curses.
Cendre had to give her credit again for being able to deduce what he was here for.
The letters were mundane at first glance; formal invitations, seasonal greetings, minor negotiations. A few bore the seal of the Silvering Bank.
He paused there.
The sums referenced were not insignificant. Loans taken under Sullybane's name and title as collateral. Enough to commission another suit of armor or fund extended campaigning.
It was interesting.
Afterall, The Silvering Bank was no obscure lender. It had branches in every major district, dealing with merchants and nobility alike. For a knight of standing to require such loans suggested ambition or pressure usually.
He read further.
One letter, written in a looser hand, came from a friend in the Central. It detailed humiliation at a recent tourney, defeated by a squire, unhorsed by another. The writer lamented the loss of a prized steed and requested assistance in paying its ransom.
Cendre felt Lady Elowen's gaze pressing between his shoulders.
He replaced the letters precisely as he had found them.
Nothing overtly treacherous.
He closed the drawer and turned his attention to the adjoining chamber.
"May I inspect the next room?" he asked, studying her expression.
She hesitated this time.
Then she called softly for a servant, who arrived bearing a key to the door. Elowen took it, paused a heartbeat, and handed it to him.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The room served as a private office and armory.
An armor stand occupied one corner, fitted with a spare suit that was well-crafted and not ceremonial. Commissioned as reserve mostly likely. The leather straps were recently oiled.
His gaze shifted.
At the center of the room, mounted within an expensive glass display, rested a longsword.
"Is that Ser Sullybane's ancestral blade?" he asked.
"It is," she replied, pride and worry mingling in her voice. "He refuses to carry it. He fears losing it."
Cendre nodded.
A cautious man, then.
He moved to the desk. Several half-written letters lay scattered across its surface, ink dried mid-sentence. A small stack of books rested beside them that were marked for reading. Tactical treatises. A volume on northern folklore.
Below the desk, his fingers brushed against an irregular seam in the wood.
A hidden panel.
He glanced once toward Lady Elowen. She stood rigid, watching.
He slid the panel aside.
Inside lay a leather pouch heavy with gold coins. A jeweled dagger that was ornate but functional. And a folded letter faintly scented with fruit.
He unfolded it briefly.
The handwriting was delicate, affectionate.
It was from Lady Elowen, written before she became Lady Sullybane. The contents were tender, earnest, filled with youthful longing and promises of shared futures.
He refolded it carefully and returned it to its place.
Nothing illicit.
Nothing secret beyond sentiment and precaution.
He replaced the panel and stood.
The room bore no signs of conspiracy. No coded correspondence. No hidden sigils. No unusual maps. Even if there was, he hid it well.
He gave the chamber one final, measured look.
"Are you finished, Ser?" Lady Elowen asked.
"I am," he replied. "The 'curse' does not appear to linger here, MAdam. Unless there is something further you wish to disclose."
She straightened. Eyes filled with that noble pride. And when she spoke, the restraint in her voice cracked.
"My husband is loyal," she said, more sharply than before. "He is loving. He would spill his own blood before betraying his oath."
Her hands trembled slightly, though her chin remained lifted.
"He has served faithfully," she continued. "He has bled for his Lord. For this city. Whatever he saw in those mountains may have broken him. But it does mean it changed who he is."
Cendre held her gaze.
There was no deception in her expression. Only fear and fierce devotion to the man she loved..
"I do not question his courage," he said evenly.
He inclined his head.
"I apologize for the intrusion. No word of this visit will leave my mouth without cause."
Her shoulders lowered a fraction.
"Thank you, Ser. You may leave."
He moved toward the door.
As he stepped back into the yard, the noise of the smithy district swelling once more around him, he felt no closer to resolution.
If Sullybane harbored treachery, it was not within these walls.
Which left him with two possibilities.
Either the knight was innocent or he was far more careful than most men.
The Huntsman's place, then, he thought as he passed beyond the gates and made his way outside the walls.
Karlos the huntsman lived on the outskirts, north of the market road, near the treeline, just as Kyra had said. It was more secluded than he had imagined and larger.
Outside, the air bit harder. Without the towering walls of Icy's End to blunt the winds descending from the Argent Peaks, the cold pressed close and personal. He had often wondered whether the walls carried some enchantment that softened the gales within the city. But the simpler explanation was that the stone blocked the wind.
The house came into view gradually through sparse trees. Its lower level was built of thick stone, practical and unadorned. The upper floor was timbered, darkened by weather and neglect. Leaves gathered thick around the yard, unswept and damp, clinging to one another in slow decay. No effort had been made to clear them.
An unpleasant stench lingered near a drying rack set to one side of the house. Slabs of game hung too long in the open air, edges blackened and curling. Flies clustered lazily despite the cold. It seemed the Huntsman had forgotten his own catch beneath the sun or had not cared to retrieve it when he had been called.
Cendre circled the house first, boots quiet over hardened earth. He examined the windows, the corners, and the foundation stones. No fresh footprints lingered. No obvious disturbances in the frost-hardened soil.
He approached the door.
Locked.
He paused, scanning the treeline, the road, the horizon. No one watched.
After a brief hesitation, he lifted his armored boot and drove it into the lock. Wood splintered as the iron snapped. The door flung inward with a sharp crack.
He stepped inside.
The air within was stale and heavy.
The fireplace was dead, ashes cold and long undisturbed. Plates sat abandoned upon the table, scraps hardened to stone. Several bottles of wine lay scattered; two upright, three empty and rolled against a chair leg.
Company, perhaps. Or indulgence.
He closed the door behind him, leaving it hanging loosely on its damaged hinge. No one was there to protest his intrusion.
The first floor was modest but cluttered. He moved slowly, tapping sections of the floor with the butt of his dagger, listening for hollowness. The boards responded solidly, save for one section near the pantry.
A trapdoor led to a basement.
He descended carefully.
Cold struck him at once, colder than the air outside. The chamber below was packed with butchered meat hung from iron hooks. Deer, boar, smaller game. The preservation was effective as the frost clung naturally to the stone walls.
He frowned.
How the space maintained such consistent cold without visible venting puzzled him. Perhaps the stone foundation reached deep enough to keep winter trapped year-round.
He ascended again.
The kitchen was in disarray. Rotting vegetables sagged in baskets. More bottles collected near the sink. Grease had hardened across iron pans left unwashed. It smelled sour, clearly neglected.
He climbed the narrow staircase to the second floor, hoping for better order.
It was worse.
Clothes were strewn across the floor, from shirts, cloaks, undergarments. Among them lay a woman's dress, inexpensive but carefully mended. The sort worn by hired companionship rather than wives.
He lifted it slightly.
Perfume clung faintly to the fabric, a strange mixture of lavender and citrus. He let it fall.
The room to the far left served as a workshop. Arrow shafts lined one wall in varying stages of completion. Fletching tools rested neatly on a bench. A whetstone bore recent scoring. His bow hung above the table, string loosened properly.
Functional and organized despite how the other rooms looked. Nothing remarkable.
The final chamber was the bedroom.
The smell here was strongest.
A large moose head was mounted above a small fireplace, its glass eyes dull in the dim light. A narrow desk stood beneath the window, supporting an inkwell and quill. Five books lay stacked beside it.
He examined them.
Three concerned herbs on identification, preparation, and medicinal properties. One was a worn adventure tale, The Tale of the Winding Knight, its spine cracked from repeated reading.
The last book was more curious.
It concerned the worship of the Mercies.
He raised a brow.
Most North-folk paid homage to the Furies, the harsh gods for a harsh land. The Mercies were gentler, southern in origin and did not suit the folks here who once relied on harshness for survival. For a huntsman of Icy's End to read such material was… unexpected.
He searched beneath the bed. Behind the desk. Along the floorboards.
Nothing concealed itself.
That left only the attic.
He located the narrow ladder and climbed.
The attic air was thick with dust and neglect. Broken furniture lay piled haphazardly with chairs missing legs, a cracked chest, warped shelves. Light filtered weakly through a small circular window.
Then he saw it.
In the far corner, chained loosely to a beam, lay a sabercat.
It was smaller than he anticipated, its coat a muted gray, ribs visible beneath thin fur. It struggled faintly at his presence, barely managing to lift its head. Its eyes tracked him with dull awareness.
He stepped closer.
The creature was not alone.
Another shape shifted in the shadow beyond, a second sabercat, equally weakened.
His gaze sharpened.
On the flank of the nearer beast, faint streaks of pigment marred the natural coat. Painting the gray coat with another color.
His attention snapped back to the book on one of the furniture nearby. He had noticed a page folded at its corner. A bookmarked passage that described in careful detail the rarity and value of two-colored sabercats. Their pelts. Their anatomy.
Their distinguishing marks.
He looked again at the animal before him.
One was muted gray and the other was painted to match the description written on the book..
It doesn't take a smart man to understand the implications here.
It was damning.