Martin reread the ancient letter several times in the next few days. Despite his words to Will about not getting his hopes up, he found himself taking it out to look at nearly any time he was alone. Two days later, he made some time after work to go back to the Imperial library, looking not for newspapers about his family—that search had just about dried up—but for information about the architect of Alderbridge Cathedral.

  Martin learned many things about the Cathedral. Construction began around three hundred years ago and took a remarkable forty-five years to complete. It had cost the Church of the True God nearly a million Imperial Sovereigns, an unprecedented sum even now. However, it was an investment designed to reinvigorate the flagging faith among the citizens of the Eldamris Empire. It was planned to be the greatest cathedral in the Empire and was built to tower over even some of the most impressive cathedrals on the continent. It did so for nearly a hundred years, when an earthquake caused the main spire to collapse. The rebuilt spire ended up slightly shorter. That, and the completion of a newer, taller cathedral in New Portsmouth using modern building techniques, dethroned Alderbridge Cathedral of its title as the world’s tallest, but not diminishing its overall grandeur all that much.

  Martin learned that the Cathedral was 160 meters tall and equipped with 13 bells. He learned about the innovative ideas behind the design of the flying buttresses and how many exits and toilets the Cathedral had. He also learned it was presided over by Archbishop Heinrich Sprenger. Sprenger was, in his younger years, an infamous Church Inquisitor known for the swiftness of his blade and the impartiality of his judgment. He had a reputation, unlike many of his contemporaries, not for cruelty but for efficiency.

  One day, Heinrich was sent on a mission to the Isle of Drake to hunt a demon that had been torturing tourists. The isle, located just south of the main island of Eldara upon which Alderbridge was located, was famous for its natural hot springs and the beauty of its nature. The demon had taken to hiding in the hot springs and dragging unsuspecting visitors deep into the forest, where rituals were held that can only be described in the softest whispers, far from the light of the True Creator.

  No one knows exactly what happened on the Isle of Drake, but Heinrich returned without his sword. He resigned his position as Inquisitor and devoted himself wholly to the cloth. Rumors abound of the horrors Heinrich encountered there and the grievous wounds he must have borne, but Heinrich never uttered a word about what transpired. His diligence in matters of faith and his sound judgement in practical matters led to rapid promotion, eventually securing him the position of Archbishop of Alderbridge. True to his character, he reigned in public executions and simplified much of the ritual of the daily mass. He continued as an impartial judge of the faithful, speaking often of mercy but seldom of forgiveness. Some whisper that Heinrich never truly abandoned the blade at all, and that anyone with a wicked heart wandering near the Cathedral after dark would meet a swift and painless end. Regardless of the rumors, none could question the authority Heinrich Sprenger now holds over the faithful of the Eldamris Empire.

  These stories and countless more facts about the Cathedral were held by the tomes Martin flipped through, but not a single scrap of paper bore the name of the man who designed it. It was as if the architect of such a grand building had been purged from history, almost like Martin himself had been. Judging from the letter, it made sense. The writer himself had been afraid of getting caught up in the church purges, and if he indeed had been caught, with his allegiance to a cosmic master, it was just a matter of time before he met a lamentable end.

  Martin sat at one of the tables in a building of the Imperial library dedicated to city history. There were just a handful of other patrons there that evening, and as it was starting to get late, most of them had already left for home. Martin remained, chin braced on his hands, lost in thought.

  “Interested in the cathedral, are we love?” A woman’s voice spoke softly next to him.

  Martin jumped slightly. He had gotten so lost in his musings that he had completely lost sense of where everyone was. He reminded himself not to let the apparent peacefulness of the library lull him into a false sense of complacency.

  “Yes. That I am.” Martin responded as soon as he realized it was just a young librarian stopping by for a quick word.

  “Did you know the cathedral has an official historian? I’ve not met her, but I hear she loves taking questions from the common people about her beloved church.”

  “Really? I hadn’t heard that. Do you know when she is open to the public?”

  “Most working days, I suppose. I only know what I’ve heard from other historians who have had reason to seek her out.”

  “Thank you kindly. That's very helpful.”

  Having not found anything else useful that night, Martin decided to head home earlier than usual and spend a quiet night with Boudica. When he went to bed that night, he had no clue of the events that were transpiring elsewhere in the city.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Early the next morning, Sly sidled up to Martin with a conspiratorial glint in his eye.

  “Have you heard the news, Martin? Admiral Rooke was killed last night, right in his own home!”

  Martin, who was adjusting the ties on a crate, paused, his attention immediately captured. “Killed? By whom?”

  “They’re saying it was his maid,” Sly replied, leaning in closer, “Killed him and vanished into thin air. No one knows why she did it, and now there’s a massive manhunt on the way.”

  Martin cursed. He had met one of Rooke's maids just a few days before. He wasn't sure what had been in that letter he had passed her, but he couldn't help but wonder if he was now an accessory to the murder. Even if the letter was completely unrelated, he was sure the investigators looking into the crime wouldn't let him off so easily.

  Sly wasn’t the only one whispering about the assassination, and the arrival of a pair of naval officers at Crane’s Landing did little to quell the rumor mill. Harrow met them at the gate and quickly hustled them into Crane’s office, where they stayed for some time. Eventually, they left, only to return with a small group of her majesty's sailors, armed and alert. Harrow quickly passed word that these fine gentlemen from the Navy would be on duty here and at dockyards all across the city, in an effort to stop the assassin from fleeing. Anyone with any intelligence, or who saw someone resembling the late Admiral’s maidservant, was advised to seek out one of the officers at all possible speed.

  Martin and his team were approached shortly after by one of the sailors, who offered them a sketch of the maid. She was short, with curly hair that fell messily around her shoulders. For some reason the artist had given her a secretive smile that only added to the attraction the dockers felt toward her. The picture removed all doubts from Martin's mind. Rosaline must have been linked to the assassination, which was likely the task with which Aelar had been entrusted by the Faceless God.

  “With eyes like that, I’m not sure I’d be able to turn her in if I found her,” Sly joked to Dillion, elbowing him gently in the side. Martin eyed the picture silently before telling the sailor he had never seen her before.

  That night, Martin made his way to the Chapel of the Faceless God for his regular training session with Jacques. After his normal session of getting tossed around the room, the two men sat in silence for a moment, drinking from some rum Jacques had acquired through a contact in the colonies. It was far higher quality than what Martin would have experienced as a sailor, or in the cheap bars of Alderbridge, and was worthy of being sipped leisurely. Martin weighed his first words carefully, wondering if he should ask for guidance about the letter, or dive right into what he really wanted to know—the truth of the assassination.

  Jacques, seemingly reading the discomfort in his mind, preempted him. “You look like a tea kettle about to erupt. You might as well ask about the assassination before you blow up.”

  Martin let out a laugh. “Am I that easy to read?”

  “Easier than the worst penny dreadful. Truly, the poorest excuse for a faceless man I’ve ever trained.”

  “It’s been a while since you’ve dubbed me with that honor. I was worried I was losing my touch.” The men took another drink and fell back into silence for a moment. Jacques continued to look at Martin with a faint smile on his face.

  “Well, go on then,” Martin finally let out, “Did Aelar kill Rooke?”

  “What do you think?”

  Martin weighed his words for a moment. “I don’t see the benefit of it. Admiral Rooke was a voice for peace, but the Hawks aren’t that strong, at least not to the point where the Queen can’t reign them in. Even with the admiral assassinated, there’s no cause for war. And even then, that’s for the hawks, the most likely suspects, what possible benefit could the death of an admiral bring to the Faceless God?”

  “Well reasoned, so what do you think Aelar’s role was?”

  “I can only guess that the Admiral’s death was the auspicious moment he learned of from Seraphine. With the nation’s attention focused on the murder, it must be easier for Aelar to accomplish whatever his task might be. Is he here tonight?”

  “He’s in his room, recovering.”

  “Recovering? From what?”

  “His assassination of Admiral Rooke.”

  Martin froze, glass of rum halfway to his lips. He let the glass down slowly, struggling to keep his hand still.

  "He did it then? Not the maid?"

  "You walked by the mansion, did you not? The Admiral was protected by Syagrian bodyguards, and I'm sure you felt the presence of the other powers lodged within. Do you think a mere maid could kill him?"

  "No, I suppose not. So then what's her connection to Aelar?"

  "Surely you can reason out what relation she might have to a Faceless Man."

  "You can't mean?" A brief sense of unease welled up inside Martin, threatening to expel the expensive rum he had just drunk. He replayed his trip to the Queen's Head. Dancing with Rosaline, the agility with which she had slipped the letter from his pocket, her words about him being the worst carriage driver. They all led to one conclusion.

  "Aelar was Rosaline all along."

  "Not all along," Jacques replied. "The original Rosaline was spirited away some weeks ago."

  "Is she dead?"

  "I'm not sure, but if I had to guess, yes," Jacques uttered the phrase in a tone that brooked no further questions, washing it down with a sip of rum. Martin had no choice but to follow suit.