Season of Starlight

Third Month

The Kaleno Museum

The City of Kaleno, The Cronia Region

2326

Henri Fraser found the Kaleno Museum underwhelming.

He had already seen everything on display in books or heard about in lectures taught by unenthusiastic professors hissing through their teeth who strived to induce terror rather than educate appropriately.

Henri never understood the appeal of digging up long-lost trinkets from previous centuries. He preferred to discover the possibilities that awaited him in the future rather than dwell on the past.

"Sir, come look at this!"

James Abbott was admiring several vases encased behind a layer of protective glass. He stood on the tips of his toes with hands clasped behind his back, eyes large, and lips smiling.

"These were collected from the start of the Thornbridge Dynasty," he said vibrantly. "Did you know that this museum was built out of the ruins of the royal palace?"

Abbott took a step back, inhaling a deep breath as he spun in a full circle. Extending his arms, he declared, "We could be standing in the same halls Queen Shaplam walked every morning! The very thought of it gives me chills. Don't you think so, sir?"

Henri glanced at the display. "All I see is old pots."

Abbott gasped. "I am going to pretend you didn't say that."

Henri rolled his eyes amusingly.

"These vases have given us a chance to gaze back into the lives of our ancestors," said Abbott. "The craftsmanship is unlike anything you will find today. It is a true form of art, a waypoint to fantasize about what the world could have looked like."

Henri sighed, nodding his head. "Whatever you say, James."

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Footsteps drew Henri's attention to a young man making his way down the corridor, a mop in one hand and pushing a janitorial cart in the other. He wore a set of blue scrubs fitted loosely over his body.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said, meeting Henri's eyes. He glanced over Abbott's uniform. "You must be the detective."

Henri tilted his head in surprise. It was a strange feeling... being expected by a stranger. Then again, it had happened once before.

"Yes," Henri said, shaking the man's hand. "Detective Inspector Henri Fraser of the TDB. This is Constable Abbott."

"A pleasure, sir," Abbott grinned.

"Wonderful to meet you both. My name is Ricky Pender. I am the janitor for The Department of Folklore and Mystery. I see the royal vases have caught your attention."

Abbott illuminated. "Oh, yes, sir. I find them fascinating."

"They were excavated in the Parth Mountains in 2295 by Ambrose Croftdale. When he found them, they were cracked shells, merely remnants. After thirty years, they have finally been restored to full glory. Do you recognize the culture, Constable?" Ricky asked.

"Yes, they belong to..."

Henri cleared his throat. "Constable, it appears I should remind you why we are here. It is not to indulge in ancient history."

Abbott lowered his head shamefully. "Understood, sir."

Henri turned to Ricky. "I need to speak to your resident Prophologist. It is a matter of great urgency."

"Of course. I heard about the murder. Terrible business," Ricky said. "Tell me, Inspector, what could this killer want with amulets from the Prophet Society?"

Henri chuckled.

"I am afraid that is confidential," he said, "but out of curiosity, who told you that?"

It was more a demand than a question.

Ricky grew pale. "Oh, I hope I didn't get anyone in trouble. I had no intention of relaying the information to anyone else."

"Very wise of you, Mr. Pender," Henri said, "but that is not the answer I want. Who told you? Was it Jezebel Croftdale?"

"No," Ricky said, hesitating. "It was Dr. Blanche."

"Who is Dr. Blanche?"

"Our Prophologist."

Henri massaged his temples. "Alright, where can I find her?"

"Her office is at the end of this corridor. I can show you if you'd like."

"Thank you, Mr. Pender, but that is not necessary."

Henri walked around the man, brows furrowed, and his mind focused on one thing. He truly lived in a world of fools.

The office of Dr. Blanche was tucked in a dark corner, away from the museum's activity in The Department of Folklore and Mystery. Ricky's information about his role matched out, and judging by the glistening floors and sweet aroma, he did a fine job.

Henri considered the man harmless, a messenger rather than a threat. However, in a murder investigation, not even a janitor could be overlooked.

Now he had a careless doctor to worry about too.

Henri wanted nothing to do with her if she could not control her tongue. Crucial evidence in a case had been shared, and instead of respecting secrecy, Dr. Blanche distributed it like neighbourhood gossip. If the janitor knew every detail, who else did?

Henri grasped the copper doorknob and invited himself inside.

"Dr. Blanche? Detective Inspector Henri Fraser of the TDB," he announced.

A leg swung out, the tip of a shoe nearly puncturing a hole in his forehead.

Swoosh!

Henri ducked and jumped out of the way. He pressed his hands against the doorframe.

"Inspector!" came a voice.

Henri lifted his chin to find a woman perched on a bookshelf. She quickly descended onto the floor, revealing enlarged eyes under rounded glasses as she wiped long strands of lavender hair out of her face. She smiled broadly, extending a hand.

"Dr. Betty Blanche, Kaleno Prophologist. Delighted to make your acquaintance."

Henri examined her welcoming gesture and ignored it. "Dr. Blanche, did you share highly sensitive information about this investigation with your janitor?"

Henri already knew the truth. He just wanted her to confirm it.

Betty lowered her hand and awkwardly scratched the back of her neck.

She slipped past him, walking to her desk. It was made of wood, the surface crowded with books and loose papers.

Betty threw herself down on a grey chair and swivelled in a half-circle. "I might have spoken a few words," she said, crossing her legs, "but Ricky is a good friend. You can trust that nothing will be shared."

"Did you confide in anyone else?" Henri asked.

"No."

"Remember, I am an officer of the law. I do not take kindly to deception."

"Nor would I boast in keeping secrets from you, Detective. You have my word. Only Ricky knows."

"Did you tell him the name of the victim?"

"Certainly not!" Betty said. "I pride myself in respecting the privacy of others. I only told Mr. Pender what Jezebel Croftdale allowed my excavation director to tell me."

Henri nibbled on his lower lip. "Which was?"

"The bare minimum," Betty said. "A murder occurred, the Prophet Society is involved, and you need my help."

Abbott appeared, shifting the black helmet on his head. "Morning, Doctor. Constable James Abbott at your service."

"Nice to meet you," Betty said. She shifted her focus back to Henri. "So, how can I help you?"

Henri noticed a bag of tools tucked away in the corner. The blades were dirty, spotted with patches of fresh soil.

"Did you come from an excavation?" he asked, pointing at the evidence.

Betty followed his finger. "Ah, yes," she said. "I was working with a team in the Heawa Desert. My flight landed last night."

"What were you digging for?" Abbott questioned.

Betty shrugged. "A mystery. Lady Croftdale had us pick up where her husband left off before his death. Some believe he found something up on the ridge of the Degotta Canyon, but nobody is certain."

Henri pinched his brows together. "You worked for Ambrose Croftdale, am I right?"

"You are."

"Now his wife is in charge?"

"It seems that way," Betty said. "Jezebel is convinced something valuable is hidden beneath the sand and is determined to find it. After weeks of searching, however, it appears the operation is a wasted effort, and Ambrose's death was an unfortunate mishap."

Henri studied the woman. "What do you think?"

"About Ambrose?" Betty asked. "I have my theories."

"Do you think it could have had anything to do with this?" Henri wondered, pulling the medallion out of his coat pocket. He set it on the desk, taking a step back. Betty reached out and picked it up.

"This belongs to the Order of the Covenant," she said.

"Yes, we know that, but what is its importance?" Henri asked.

Betty got up and dug around in her tool kit. She pulled a magnifying glass from the bag and removed her glasses. "Let me see," she muttered, staring at the enlarged image.

Henri explored the room, craning his neck from left to right. The office was small, completely oversaturated with books and scrolls crawling up the walls. The only source of light was a desk lamp and a window overlooking the cityscape.

After a humble introduction, his first impressions of Dr. Blanche were loose. She was a hardworking woman in her late twenties, gentle and approachable but defensive when required.

Henri assessed a certificate framed on the wall.

"How long have you been working here?" he asked.

Betty briefly looked up from her examination. "About three years. After graduating from the academy, I spent a few months floating from one excavation to another. During a dig near Woalani, I met Ambrose Croftdale. He sensed my passion and enthusiasm for archaeology and invited me to join his program in Kaleno."

"But you are a Prophologist, not a traditional archaeologist."

"Yes. I specialized in Prophology midway through my education," Betty said.

Henri pivoted on his heels. "Why Prophology?"

"Inspector, there is nothing unusual about this medallion," Betty said, changing the subject. "Unless you have more information about your killer, I cannot provide further clarity."

Abbott sat down on a chair near the door and interlaced his fingers.

"Does the term Vagabond mean anything to you?" Henri asked.

He watched curiously as Betty's face hardened. She dropped the magnifying glass and hurried towards the bookshelf where they had first met.

Grabbing a step ladder, Betty ascended to the top shelf, pulling free a small leather-bound book. She jumped down and approached Fraser, flipping to the last few pages. 

"To the average ear, The Vagabond is meaningless, but to members of the Prophet Society, the name holds incredible significance," Betty said, stumbling back to her desk.

Henri stuck to her like glue, intrigued as Betty took a seat.

She held the two halves of the book flat against the surface, spinning it around for him to see, then guided his eyes with the tip of her fingernail. "The Vagabond is one of the four harbingers of death, spirits released to devastate the land at the end of the world. The event is often referred to as Doomsday or The Apocalypse."

"The priests are certain The Vagabond is behind the homicide," Henri said. "They claim the spirit is here to sever their ties to El Olam."

Betty's gaze darkened. "The medallion you brought me was crafted of gold, often signified as the purest of all metals. These were created with the belief that priests who wore them would be spiritually connected with God, that the token holds intimate divine energy that offers protection from evil."

Henri frowned. "Why would someone masquerade around pretending to be The Vagabond? What could they gain from it?"

"I am familiar with the Order of the Covenant," Betty said. "They are an organization which views themselves responsible for the residents of this city. Perhaps the medallions not only protect the priests but Kaleno as well. Your killer could be someone with a lust for power or authority. If the priests are dead and medallions lost, according to the Order, El Olam's favour would depart Kaleno, resulting in the collapse of the spiritual barrier safeguarding the city from malice."

Henri considered the thought. "I thought the Spirit of El Olam resided everywhere and not only bound to one location."

Betty smiled. "Exactly. I am impressed, Inspector. You know your history. The medallions are useless, nothing more than a necklace of priceless gold. They hold no divine connection, nor is there anything that can. El Olam's spirit is accessible to all, but the priests often consider themselves the only tethers to the heavenly realm."

Abbott sighed. "Then why is our killer after these medallions if they know it's useless?"

"Perhaps they believe the story the priests have told to be true," Betty said, "and this truly is a theatrical attempt to gain control of the city."

"Or our killer is a thief using the tale of The Vagabond to manipulate the Prophet Society to think death is hunting them," Henri said. "Robbing the priests is the primary goal, but killing them confirms the theories that the monster exists."

Abbott clapped his hands. "You see? This is no paranormal occurrence. Our killer is a con artist with a flair for the overdramatic." He smirked, mumbling under his breath. "Superstitious priests."

Betty examined Abbott keenly. "I would not be too hasty to dismiss the possibility, Constable Abbott. Evil does exist. While people tend to mould religion to meet their own preferences, the horrors documented in the Holy Book of El Olam are far from fiction."

"What are you implying?" Henri asked.

Betty shivered. "That there is a chance a dangerous creature is out there, developing a sinister plot in the shadows neither one of us is aware of."