Curselock

Chapter 119: Epilogue [Book 2 End]

“Thank you for sitting down with us again, Royal Inquisitor. For the record, my name is Inquisitor Levi and this is Inquisitor Cassia, Legacy of the Wolf and Legacy of the Wand respectively. Can you state your name and rank in accordance with your role in the Inquisitors? For the record, of course.”

The duo waited expectantly at that, both holding pens and resting their wrists on paper. Thick bags were under both of their eyes, working this case was a headache to be sure. Inquisitor Cassia had it the worst, mana exhaustion and multiple days of sleepless travel did that to a mage.

“Royal Inquisitor Isobel, no family name.”

“Code name?”

“The Huntress.”

“Thank you, Isobel,” Levi said, scribbling down a few words. “Let’s start this interview off with some background. Where are we currently?”

Isobel subtly smiled. “In a private room in an inn.”

“And what is the name of this town where this inn is?”

“I don’t know.”

She gave a shrug.

Levi scribbled something again. “How long have you been in this town?”

“Only a few hours.”

Cassia grunted, breaking her pen’s tip against the paper. She cursed under her breath, summoning forth a bout of mana. The pen fixed and the Inquisitor forced herself to regain her composure.

“Royal Inquisitor Isobel,” she said, straining. “Please do not waste our time. It has been a long last few days and, frankly, we have better things to do than follow you as you get into trouble.”

Isobel held her hands up in surrender. “I have only been in this town a few hours cumulatively. I have stayed in the town’s nearby forest for three days.”

“So three days,” Levi said, writing more. “And you were present for the event?”

“I was.”

“Describe it, starting with why you were here.”

And the Huntress did, although she augmented some facts and twisted some truths. She did not speak of the boys, nor Leland’s direct influence over the deaths. She took credit for all of them, stating that the civilians were under the influence of the Toy Maker.

“The Toy Maker? A vile Lord was in this small, nameless town?”

Isobel leaned forward, putting her elbows on the table. “I think this town has a name.”

Cassia snapped the tip of her pen again. “That is not the point, Royal Inquisitor.”

The Huntress leaned back. “Yes, it was the Toy Maker. I was following a Harbinger from Frostford after a rogue magical blizzard ruined their winter festival.”

Levi raised an eyebrow at that. “And why were you at Frostford?”

“Vacation. The festival was quite stellar until it abruptly ended.”

“Vacation, seriously? That’s what—”

“Inquisitor Cassia,” Levi warned, his nose flaring like an animal’s. “We are not to comment on the Huntress’ choice of vacation.” He turned back to the interviewee. “We are only here for answers.”

“And I seek to provide them,” Isobel said, causing Cassia to mutter something under her breath.

“Please, Huntress. We are tired and wish to get back to our station.”

“Shoutwell, right?”

“Yes, you remember.”

“Of course I remember. I fought and killed a Monarch Avatar. A feat only equal to fighting and killing a Harbinger and a Lord image.”

Levi’s eyes drifted to his pad of paper. “Yes, a Lord image.”

“You believe I lie?” the Huntress asked.

“Frankly, yes. A Lord image should not die to a single Royal Inquisitor, even one with the reputation you hold. Unless, that is, the image’s host burned-out.”

Cassia nodded at that, continuing where her partner left off, “The host body was rather burnt.” She turned to Isobel. “You have fire-aspect attacks, right? Or was that damage not done by you?”

“What are you getting at?”

“That you didn’t actually kill the Harbinger.”

Isobel snorted.

“We have witnesses that say you were outside the ring of darkness the Harbinger created,” Levi added. “And only fought once the fog dissipated.”

The Huntress shrugged. “It was a stressful time. You know how civilians are.”

“Royal Inquisitor Isobel, the Huntress,” Cassia abruptly stated. “Just so you know, the event that happened in this town is going to be investigated by the High Inquisitor personally. All details will be found out, and punishments will be enacted for those found to be in direct opposition to humanity and the Crown.”

“What the Inquisitor means,” Levi continued, “is that this conversation is being transcribed. The High Inquisitor will be reviewing the information you provided. An attack by a Harbinger and image don’t just happen. Something is incredibly wrong here, just like in Shoutwell a few months ago. I am inclined to recommend that the High Inquisitor also investigate those events as well.”

He paused letting the statement sink in.

“With that being said, is there anything you wish to add or correct?”

Isobel leaned back, slouching. She sighed, blowing hot air out of her nose after a long stint. “I think this town’s name is Coldtree.”

Cassia snapped her newly fixed pen, again. “That is incorrect, Royal Inquisitor. This town is called Pebblepath.”

“Ah, my mistake.”

After six hours of interview, or as Isobel thought of it, interrogation, she was finally set free. She, of course, had Inquisitor duties to stay around the town of Pebblepath and wait for the High Inquisitor to arrive.

She, of course, did not do that.

Instead she traveled fast and silently, making use of her high-ranked Legacy abilities to slip away from Inquisitors Levi and Cassia without their notice. She moved down the mountain, cresting it, and headed down directly toward the town of Frostford. She didn’t eat, she didn’t sleep. She had a goal in mind, one time sensitive not only to meet back up with the High Inquisitor but also to arrive before her target ran.

Word of the events in Pebblepath had long since traveled, but it took time to move an encampment the size of the uncle’s. That was if the uncle decided it necessary to retreat.

The Huntress arrived at the edges of the poacher camp. She silently drew her parasitic weapon, a bow that consumed part of the powers of those it killed. Currently it held a golden glow, the leftovers from her dismantling a murderous group on a previous assignment.

Although, as the Huntress looked over her weapon, she spotted slight hints of crimson. Soon the remnants of the Sightless Cult would fuel her arrows.

She fired, killing two poachers on patrol. Quickly she moved, hiding in the cover of snow and bush. She let more arrows fly, killing three more. The next two groups came and died before anyone sounded the alarm. Bodies were found, and the encampment swarmed like an ant nest under attack.

Finally, she thought, standing and strolling toward her enemies. This was going to take all day if they never found the bodies.

There was a testament to steal, one the Huntress knew quite well. But those jobs were detached assignments. She hadn’t had a stake in her battle since she took revenge for her family so long ago. It was a distant memory, one that pulled more grief and anguish than not. She hated those feelings, pushing them away after her children’s killers were fed to her weapon.

She had gone decades without any emotion past mild annoyance. So why was she enraged right now?

As the Huntress tore through the encampment, killing any and all regardless of their surrender, she pondered the question. By the time all except one were dead, she hadn’t come up with an answer.

She kicked him. “Where’s your boss? The Witch.”

“L-left! He l-left!”

“Where?”

“T-the d-dungeon on t-the island!”

Pulling back on her bow, the Huntress loosed an arrow with a look of blank rage, killing the man. She turned, finding the carnage of a battlefield, and sighed. Slowly she started walking past the corpses, each one dispatched by a single bloodless golden arrow. Her thoughts turned to how she was going to miss this aspect of her bow. The gold always seemed to soak-up the blood.

Eventually she found herself on the small island just outside of Frostford. The teleporting defenses the town had set up were an irritant, but nothing she couldn’t handle. Finding the Witch’s tracks were similarly simple.

A hunter never believed they were the one hunted.

The tracks led her to a glowing red portal entrance. It clashed with the blue glow of the mushroom lit cave, turning the shimmering pool an odd violet. The color reminded her of Leland, specifically the halo that sometimes topped his head.

Halo… she murmured to herself.

The events of the Harbinger and Lordly image’s attack were hazy at best. For the former, she couldn’t see anything. For the latter, she only caught the end. And she was far too slow to interfere.

She had seen the hand-arrow and honestly didn’t think she’d be able to block such an attack. Which brought up the question of how Leland was able to do so.

Isobel sat in the violet waters, waiting for the portal to shift green and for the Witch to step out. Hours went by, and slowly but surely, Leland kept coming to mind. How did he live?

For some reason she kept thinking of his halo. Honestly the spell was somewhat pretentious. A halo on a mortal? What kind of Lord gave a Legacy that? None she knew of. But then again, just who was Leland’s Lord? For a rank one Legacy to battle, and win, against a Harbinger and image, the Legacy must be something special.

She knew that Leland held a sixth primary spell, one that stopped him from progression. One that blazed with horrible purple, one that turned the air thick, one that could burn away corruption and kill an enemy’s soul.

That, to the Huntress, sounded like a spell of a vile Lord.

The thought almost pulled her attention away from the portal. It turned green, signaling to the next party it was time to enter.

She abruptly stood, her Legacy abilities blazing like a bonfire. She scanned the room, looking for invisibility or markings of the Witch. She soon found none, meaning the uncle failed to complete the dungeon.

The Witch had died.

The Huntress took a moment, confirming despite knowing that it was futile. Her anger soon dropped away, leading her back to an empty emotionless husk. Well, that wasn’t quite true. There was an emotion hidden well in the depths of her trauma-riddled body. She’d never admit it, but the Huntress was looking forward to catching back up with the boys.

They had grown more powerful, after all, and she felt the need to test their potential again.

Inside the dungeon, Floe sat licking her reddened fur. She’d need to clean up before Gelo found her, but that was easy enough.

Her promise to her late husband was finally complete. The Poacher was dead.

Sybil Palemarrow sat looking out the castle’s ivory window, gazing at the capital city below.

Nestled in the crook of a fallen Lord, Ivory Reach centered the Palemarrow Empire. With trading routes branching through ancient valleys, the city brought prosperity to its citizens while also protecting them from the monstrous threats that looked to end humanity.

While the bones of the fallen Lord were nameless, they sought to protect the capital and all its glory. Millennia after a divine battle that rendered the land desolate, the first King and Queen of the empire used the power that leaked from the bones to house their legacy. They sought to use the bones to create a fertile home, a home that reached for the heavens.

Generations later, Sybil saw the bones of the nameless Lord as a prison. Her family’s castle sat at the heart, surrounded by ribs that stretched from their grave to the sky above.

“A bird in a cage,” she muttered, her eyes drifting to a small fountain where she had once played.

“What was that?” a voice asked, startling her.

“Nothing Lucia!” Sybil said, fluttering her vowels.

The princess had known Lucia nearly all of her life, but it was only recently that the Royal Inquisitor had become her bodyguard. One small accidental kidnapping was enough for her mother to call in the Inquisitors Silver, one of the empire’s strongest duos.

Sybil sighed. “When do we leave?”

“In a few hours. Spencer has to coordinate with the transport. We’ll be naked on the road. The castle’s—”

“Protections are set in stone. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.”

Lucia frowned somberly at the lonesome girl.

Sybil reacted right away by reddening. “I-I should t-tell mother to throw you in the dungeon for that look!”

“What look?” Lucia’s gaze turned even more pitiful.

“That one! Stop that!”

“I know you want to leave the castle, and we will be in a few hours. So just relax. The road might seem like fun during preparations, but once we get moving, you’ll see how boring it will be.”

Sybil pouted. “I just want to see my friends.”

“Aww sugar… those weren’t your friends, they were just people who were trying to use your position as princess.”

“As brutal as ever, Lucia,” the teenager said. “I know you’re right, it just hurts being alone. I see you, Spencer, and the maid that brings me meals. And he doesn’t even speak to me! He just silently cuts my steaks and pours my drinks! Trust me, I’ve tried everything to get him to talk to me!”

Lucia’s eyes went soft before a thought occurred. “You know… Leland is going to—”

“Shut up!”

“You can’t—”

“I said no more!”

“Princess Sybil you are coming of age—”

A pillow hit Lucia in the face.

She continued anyway, “My son is a proper—”

A second pillow hit, this time far stronger than the last. Lucia stopped her teasing instantly, instead scooting to the edge of her seat and straightening her back.

“Sybil, it's happening again. Calm yourself.”

The last in line for the throne ended her thrashing about and went stark still. She held up her hands, eyeing her palms like a shady reader in the corner of a tavern. Through her skin, her bones glowed with a vibrant sheen. Sybil focused on maintaining the light, forcing her birthright to submission.

The glow fizzled away, just like the countless attempts before.

“Good attempt. You lasted another few seconds longer than last,” Lucia said, leaning back in relaxation.

Sybil gave her an unamused look. “Do I really need—”

“Yes.”

“But—”

“Don’t care.”

“How did you even—”

“Know what you were going to say?” Lucia shrugged. “I’m a mother. I know things.”

Sybil eyed her cautiously. “Why do I need my birthright as a Palemarrow when in a few days I’ll have a Lord and Legacy?”

“You can never have enough weapons.”

“Says you! You are a mage! You don’t even use weapons!”

“Mana is my weapon.”

Sybil made a sound of annoyance.

Lucia eased back, giving the princess some space. Since the kidnapping, it had been tough on everyone. But for some reason, the victim’s feelings were often left out of the plans to make sure another never happened.

“I know it’s rough.” Lucia said calmly before shifting to a smile. “You know what? Why don’t we head down to Spencer and see if we can bug him. I’m sure he’ll love that.”

Sybil snorted. “I think you mean hate.”

“I know what I said.”

The two made for the door before the Inquisitor suddenly stopped. “Forgetting something?”

Groaning, Sybil went to her nightstand and pulled out an ivory mask. It was rounded and blank, except for two eye holes that gave the mask a perpetual expression of contempt. It was honestly a perfect match for the princess, as she felt only contempt when she was forced to wear it. Which was whenever she left her room.

She held the piece of the nameless Lord’s bone up to her face, allowing the magic within to snap to her smooth brown skin. It hid the scar across her lip and right eye that her captors inflicted, covering every detail of what made her, her. To an onlooker, the mask was glued to her face without strap or tie, obscuring any detail of who she was while urging their mind to focus elsewhere.

“Ready?” Lucia asked, taking the princess by her hand before leading her through the prison like walls.