Chapter 7 — The Secret Caelen Left Behind

The dead guard had Maevra’s attention for exactly three seconds.

The knife had it for longer.

She stood at the entrance of Varek Keep’s old armory while Taven crouched beside the body. Several guards blocked the corridor behind them, preventing the growing crowd from getting any closer.

Thornmere steel protruded from the dead wolf’s chest.

Again.

Maevra folded her arms.

“Whoever is doing this lacks imagination.”

Taven shot her a dark look.

“A Ravaryn guard is dead.”

“And someone wants you staring at the knife instead of asking why.”

Rhydan stepped around the body.

His expression had turned frighteningly calm.

“Was he one of the three reassigned from Maevra’s corridor?”

“Yes,” Taven said. “Deren Holt. Seven years in the western guard.”

“Where are the other two?”

“Still missing.”

Rhydan looked at the knife.

“Does it belong to you?”

Maevra’s jaw tightened.

“No.”

“Recognize the work?”

“Military issue. Thornmere stopped making that hilt four years ago.”

Taven glanced up.

“You’re sure?”

“I spent most of my adult life carrying Thornmere weapons. Yes.”

Rhydan crouched.

“Old stock?”

“Possibly.”

“Easy to acquire?”

“If you had access to a battlefield, captured supplies, or someone inside Thornmere.”

That last possibility settled uneasily between them.

Maevra hated it.

Whoever had murdered Caelen might have help inside both territories.

Taven rose.

“I’ll find the missing guards.”

“Do that,” Rhydan said. “Then trace every captured Thornmere weapon stored in this keep.”

Taven nodded.

Maevra looked toward the body again.

“Who found him?”

“A kitchen servant.”

“Convenient.”

Rhydan turned to her.

“You think the body was meant to be found quickly?”

“I think whoever staged Northwood likes audiences.”

His gaze held hers.

That was answer enough.

Someone wanted each discovery to push Ravaryn toward the same conclusion.

Thornmere.

Maevra.

War.

“Caelen’s rooms,” she said.

Taven frowned.

“Now?”

“His murderer is killing guards and planting weapons while we stand around admiring the work.”

Rhydan looked toward the corridor.

“Seal the armory. Nobody enters without Taven’s permission.”

Then he faced Maevra.

“Come.”

Prince Caelen’s rooms had been left untouched since his death.

Rhydan broke the seal himself.

The door opened onto a sitting room that looked nothing like Maevra expected from a Ravaryn prince.

Books covered nearly every available surface.

Maps had been pinned to one wall. Several chairs surrounded a battered wooden table scarred with ink stains. Papers sat in uneven piles beside half-burned candles.

Maevra stepped inside.

“Your brother was messy.”

“He called it organization.”

“He lied.”

Rhydan closed the door.

For a moment, grief moved across his face.

Maevra pretended not to notice.

She crossed to the wall.

Most maps showed trade roads rather than military positions.

That surprised her.

Ravaryn iron routes.

Thornmere grain roads.

Northern Council checkpoints.

Vaelridge crossings.

Duskreach markets.

Colored pins marked scattered locations.

“What was Caelen responsible for?”

“Trade negotiations. Diplomatic correspondence. Council relations.”

“Not military supply.”

“No.”

Maevra touched one of the maps.

“Then why did he mark army routes?”

Rhydan joined her.

Several red lines overlapped known military roads.

Black marks followed supply routes.

Small silver circles appeared beside old battle sites.

Rhydan’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s becoming a popular answer.”

“You’re welcome to solve it.”

“I intend to.”

She moved toward the desk.

Ordinary correspondence filled the top drawer. Invitations. Trade requests. Complaints from merchants. Letters concerning road repairs.

Nothing worth murdering a prince over.

The second drawer contained financial reports.

Maevra pulled one free.

Rhydan leaned over her shoulder.

“Council reimbursement.”

“For what?”

“Border defense.”

Maevra scanned the numbers.

The amount was enormous.

“Ravaryn received this?”

“Apparently.”

She checked the date.

“Greywater campaign.”

Rhydan’s expression changed.

Maevra remembered the woman in the courtyard.

Her son had died there.

Thornmere had lost forty-three wolves in the same battle.

“Why would the Northern Council reimburse Ravaryn for a battle between our packs?”

“Regional security grants.”

“That generous?”

“No.”

She handed him the page.

Another report sat beneath it.

Different year.

Different battle.

Same payment office.

Maevra pulled out a third.

Then a fourth.

“Rhydan.”

“I see it.”

Payments increased after major clashes.

Not only to Ravaryn.

Several entries carried Thornmere trade codes.

Maevra stared.

“My pack received money too.”

“Did you know?”

“No.”

“Could your father have?”

“Possibly.”

Cedren had managed state finances personally during the early war years. Later, he handed more administrative control to Edrissa.

Maevra pushed the thought away.

Too early.

Too little evidence.

Rhydan opened another drawer.

Empty.

He frowned.

“What?”

“Caelen kept journals here.”

“How many?”

“Usually three or four.”

“Someone took them.”

“Or he moved them.”

Maevra looked around.

“If I were secretly investigating corruption and had a brother who happened to be Alpha, I wouldn’t store my evidence in the obvious drawer.”

Rhydan gave her a dry look.

“Comforting to know.”

She ignored him.

Caelen’s desk faced the window.

Too exposed.

Bookshelves covered the opposite wall.

Maevra began checking spines.

History.

Law.

Economics.

Poetry.

She paused.

“Your brother read poetry?”

“Bad poetry.”

“Interesting.”

“Why?”

“You look offended by its existence.”

“I spent years listening to him recite it.”

Maevra almost smiled.

Then she noticed three books pushed farther back than the rest.

She pulled them forward.

Dust outlined a clean rectangle behind them.

Something had been hidden there.

Rhydan reached past her and pressed his fingers against the wooden panel.

It shifted.

A narrow compartment opened.

Inside sat a ledger.

Three folded notes.

And a small leather pouch.

Neither spoke.

Maevra picked up the ledger.

No title.

No official crest.

Only columns of numbers.

Dates.

Initials.

Locations.

Rhydan took one of the notes.

“What does it say?”

“Nothing.”

She looked over.

The page appeared blank except for random strings of letters and numbers.

“Code.”

“Caelen hated codes.”

“Apparently murder changed his preferences.”

Rhydan unfolded the second note.

Same pattern.

Maevra took the third.

Her eyes moved across the markings.

Something felt familiar.

She read the first line again.

Then the second.

“What?”

“I’ve seen this structure before.”

“Where?”

“Thornmere intelligence reports.”

Rhydan went still.

“You can read it?”

“Not directly.”

She placed the note beside the ledger.

“Our field ciphers change every season. This isn’t one I used, but the spacing is similar.”

Rhydan studied the symbols.

“Caelen was corresponding with Thornmere.”

“Or someone wanted it to look that way.”

“Fair.”

Maevra examined the leather pouch.

Inside were six small metal tokens stamped with merchant seals.

She recognized two.

“Duskreach iron traders.”

Rhydan picked up another.

“Vaelridge transport guild.”

“What does Caelen have to do with merchants?”

“Perhaps nothing.”

Maevra opened the ledger again.

Numbers repeated beside the same initials.

RV.

TS.

NC.

Amounts large enough to finance entire patrol companies.

She turned several pages.

The entries went back eleven years.

Her pulse slowed.

“This started long before Caelen began investigating.”

“Yes.”

“Look at the dates.”

Rhydan did.

Major battles.

Supply shortages.

Border raids.

Every surge in violence was followed by enormous transfers.

Maevra traced one line with her finger.

“Blackridge.”

Rhydan’s expression hardened.

That battle had nearly destroyed one of Thornmere’s western villages.

Another entry.

“Selvar Pass.”

Ravaryn had lost an entire patrol unit there.

The ledger continued.

Money after blood.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Rhydan spoke quietly.

“Someone was being paid whenever the war intensified.”

“Several someones.”

He turned another page.

One entry had been circled.

The date was six years earlier.

Maevra stopped breathing.

Cedren’s death.

A payment had been made three days before the attack.

Another two days afterward.

Both were larger than anything else on the page.

Rhydan looked at her.

Maevra forced herself to keep reading.

“Who received it?”

“Initials only.”

She leaned closer.

M.V.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Recognize them?”

“No.”

Rhydan answered too quickly.

Maevra looked up.

He was staring at the initials.

“You do.”

“I recognize possibilities.”

“Name them.”

“Not until I know more.”

She stepped toward him.

“My father died between those payments.”

“And my brother died because he started asking about them.”

That stopped her.

Rhydan closed the ledger.

“We assume nothing.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“No, Maevra. It isn’t.”

His voice had changed.

Sharp now.

“Caelen was murdered less than two days ago. If his killer knew he found this ledger, then everyone whose initials appear inside it may already know we’re looking.”

Maevra looked at the hidden compartment.

Someone had searched Caelen’s rooms.

They had taken his journals.

Missed this.

Or left it deliberately.

Her unease returned.

“How did the killer miss the ledger?”

Rhydan’s face went still.

Neither of them liked the obvious answer.

Perhaps they hadn’t.

A soft click sounded behind them.

The door.

Rhydan turned.

Locked.

He had locked it himself.

Maevra reached for the knife she still did not have.

Footsteps stopped outside.

Then something slid beneath the door.

A folded piece of paper.

Rhydan approached carefully and picked it up.

No name.

No seal.

He unfolded it.

Maevra watched his eyes move across the single line.

“What?”

He handed it to her.

The message contained seven words.

Caelen found the money. He missed the buyer.

Maevra looked toward the locked door.

The corridor beyond it was already silent.

Whoever had delivered the note knew exactly what they had discovered.

And knew they were inside Caelen’s room.