The Monsignor turned several more rings. “There aren’t really that many to choose from, but I would think the odds would still be astronomical against. After all, the Canticle of Obsequy is usually inscribed only above the entrance to an Ossarium, which is why we had to memorize it. I’ve never heard of it appearing on a piece of Regalia before, but—there it is.” He carefully nudged the last ring into place.
The instant the final symbols aligned, the cabochon rubies that filled the eye sockets of the Morgatuan’s skull flickered with a blood-red glow, as though something malevolent had awakened. Simultaneously, radiant Tep’Chuan symbols etched themselves across the floor at Dona’s feet. At that moment, a fierce blast of stale air and dust buffeted her, scattering the contents of the vault in fetid swirling eddies. Covering her ears against the pressure change, she stepped back, only to discover that a large section of floor behind her had simply vanished. Her foot missed the edge—she lost her balance, and with a shriek, she toppled into the abyss.
“Dona!” Alexi screamed. Oblivious to the pain in his ankle, he dashed to the brink and held aloft the Lighted locket.
The circular pit’s walls were roughly carved from bedrock. A narrow stairway spiraled along them into the depths, beyond the ability of the locket to illuminate. The stairs were interrupted at several points by landings, each with its own archway framing a tunnel leading into deeper darkness.
“Dona!” Alexi yelled.
A moan echoed from below.
“Don’t move. I’ll be right there.”
“You can’t run those stairs with that ankle,” Alphonse said. “Hand me the locket. I’ll go.”
Alexi paused, glancing from Alphonse back to the pit.
The Monsignor peered downward. “He’s right. He can make it faster. Let him go.”
Alexi thrust the locket into Alphonse’s outstretched hand. “Be careful.” He turned back to the pit. “Dona, hold tight. Alphonse is coming.”
Alexi and the Monsignor hobbled after Alphonse, but it wasn’t long before he was too far ahead for them to see their footing. Pausing, Alexi cast a furtive glance over his shoulder at the Monsignor, who was trying desperately to place each step using the Morgatuan’s feeble glow. Alexi held up the Inquisitor’s sword. “Forgive me, Monsignor.” In full voice, he recited a series of mnemonics he’d gleaned from Reston’s book. Brilliant golden light streamed from the blade. Alexi resumed his slow descent.
For several moments, the Monsignor stood blinking in shock. Then, as Alexi’s light left him behind, he called out. “I forgive you. Hold up.”
Far below, Alphonse finally reached the layer of moldering straw that blanketed the pit’s lower reaches. Although he couldn’t see Dona anywhere, a haze of dust and mold still lingered.
“Dona, are you there?”
Another moan—from beneath the straw. He placed a tentative foot on its surface, but it failed to support his weight.
As he drew back his foot, Dona screamed.
Setting his jaw, Alphonse leapt. He sank up to his waist. Dust billowed around him. He struggled for breath.
“Hold on,” Alexi cried. “We’re coming.”
Dona’s head surfaced. “There are bugs in here.” She flailed and swatted, raising noxious clouds of dust and decay.
Alphonse held out his hand. “Are you hurt?”
“Just the wind knocked out of me. I’m bruised, but I can walk—if the bugs don’t get me first.” She swatted a few more times and reached for Alphonse’s hand.
Alphonse helped drag her back through the straw to the stairway. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
Once their feet hit stone, Dona dusted the dirt and straw from her habit and evicted as many bugs as she could find.
When Alexi and the Monsignor finally made it down the stairway, Alexi rushed to embrace Dona, but backed off when he caught a whiff. He settled for picking stray pieces of straw from her hair. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“Don’t worry. What is this place, anyway?”
The Monsignor had a seat on the steps. “Unless I miss my guess, we’ve discovered the long-lost Exidgeon Ossarium.”
“Ossarium?” Alphonse asked. “What’s that?”
“Chervillians don’t believe the soul moves on to a new realm after death. Instead, they’re convinced it is destroyed unless extraordinary steps are taken to preserve it.”
“So…this is a cemetery?” Dona asked.
“Not exactly. An Ossarium is more like a temporary storage area for the dead.”
Alexi shuddered. “What do you mean temporary?”
“There’d be no point in storing them unless you were planning to revive them, would there? They believe a great savior will one day arrive to rescue them from their slumber.”
“I don’t suppose there’s another exit?” Alexi asked.
“I have no idea.”
Dona brushed off her hands. “It’s not like we have any other options. We’ll have to look.”
“We’ll need to be extraordinarily careful. Ossaria have historically been prime targets for looters, and the Church long ago deemed them anathema. As a result, the Chervillians became quite adept at concealing and protecting them. Under normal circumstances, when the Church discovers an Ossarium, only trained experts are authorized to enter and neutralize it. Even then, there are occasional…accidents.”
The light on the locket suddenly winked out.
Dona rubbed Alexi’s arm. “Can you light it up again?”
Alexi looked to the Monsignor, who, after a long pause, shrugged. “Go ahead. We can worry about our penance later. I very much doubt we’d survive in the dark.”
Alexi took the locket from Alphonse, and a moment later, the glow resumed. As he placed it around Dona’s neck, something smote the straw next to Alphonse, raising a telltale puff of dust.
Alphonse peered upward. “Ack, the Bursar.”
“I thought you tied him up?” Alexi said.
“I thought I did too, but I’ve never had to tie anyone up before. It’s not as easy as it sounds. Not to worry—I’ll get him.” He drew his sword and sprinted up the stairway. He took six steps and stopped. “Um, I’ll need a light.”
“We should all go together,” the Monsignor said. “If you take off after him, there’s no telling what you might run into.”
“He’s already attacked you once,” Dona said. “We can’t just let him get away.”
The Monsignor was adamant. “We are better off staying together.”
“I’ll go first,” Alphonse volunteered.
“He’ll need my light,” Alexi said. “I’ll go second.
With Dona following the Monsignor, who leaned on the Morgatuan as a cane, they limped their way upward. Despite a brave show, Alexi had irritated his sprain to the point where he could barely put weight on it. Dona was terrified he would lose his footing. The distraction proved disastrous—the arm around her throat came as a total shock.
Instinctively, she tried to twist out of her attacker’s grasp. “Hey—”
Her struggles were cut short by a sharp pain in the small of her back—to avoid skewering, she allowed herself to be dragged into an archway and out of sight.
The cry alerted her companions, but their positions on the stairway made coordinated response difficult. The Monsignor whirled toward the archway, but Brent’s voice froze him in place.
“That’s far enough, gentlemen.”
“I can’t get to him,” Alphonse said. “Back up.”
“Don’t move,” Dona cried. “He has a blade.”
Alphonse gaped at the Monsignor. “Where’s your sword?”
The Monsignor reddened. “I left it above.”
“Don’t you worry,” Brent said. “It’s in good hands.”
“What do you want?” the Monsignor demanded.
“The same as you do—to get out of this place alive.”
“We aren’t stopping you.” Alexi said. “Let her go.”
The Monsignor held up
his hand and Alexi fell silent. “How does taking the girl help with that?”
“Would you have negotiated if I hadn’t?”
Alexi handed off his glowing blade to Alphonse and slipped silently past him up the steps.
“What did you want to negotiate?” the Monsigor asked.
“A truce. I can’t make it out of here without your light, and you’ll never make it out without my help.”
Alexi crept farther up the stairway.
“What about your help would make it worth the risk?” the Monsignor asked, “keeping in mind you’ve threatened to kill me.”
“That was before I knew we had a source of light. I thought we were all dead. Even with the light, you’ll never make it out of here unless you work with me.”
By now, Alexi had made it up the stairs to the opposite side of the pit and was on his hands and knees trying to get a good view down through the archway, but so far, all he could see was Dona’s feet off to one side. The Monsignor glanced up to him with a hopeful look, but Alexi shook his head.
“Really?” the Monsignor asked. “What’s so dangerous?”
“Nice try, but you aren’t going to get the milk for free.”
“Well then, at least name the cow. Why should we believe a University Bursar would know anything useful about an Ossarium he couldn’t even open?”
Alexi moved a bit farther up the stairs, but to no avail—the Bursar had moved far enough back into the corridor that Alexi couldn’t get a bead on him. Once again, he shook his head at the Monsignor.
“I recognized the Morgatuan,” Brent pointed out.
“As you mentioned before, it is distinctive. You’ll have to do better.”
“I knew it could be used to open the Ossarium. That’s why I locked us in the vault.”
“Then again, you might simply have decided that starving to death would be better than what the Inquisition had in store for you. If you aren’t lying, we’ll have to find out how you know what you claim to know sooner or later.”
The Monsignor shot Alexi a frustrated look. All Alexi could do was shrug—Brent was not visible from his vantage point.
Brent sighed. “Very well. One of my ancestors survived the defeat of the Chervillian enclave here by escaping through the Ossarium. I have his journal.”
“An intriguing story, but awfully convenient.”
“He does have an old-looking book with him,” Dona said.
“Then, hold it out where we can see it.”
“I’m not falling for that one,” Brent said. “Here.” He thrust the journal into Dona’s hands. “You hold it out.”
Trembling, and with the point of the sword still making its presence known, Dona moved forward just enough so that her companions could see the crumbling journal. In doing so, she moved just enough for Alexi to glimpse the top of Brent’s foot through his sandal.
“I’ve kept my part of the bargain,” Brent said. “Do we have a deal?”
“We’ll need to discuss it.”
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I vote ‘yes,’” Dona said.
And then Brent’s sword clattered to the floor. Dona snatched it up and whirled to face her assailant, but he offered no resistance. For the second time in as many hours, Brent lay unconscious.
“About time,” Dona said.
Alexi started back down toward them. “You were in the way—”
“The journal,” the Monsignor said. “Do we have the journal?”
Dona held it up. “Right here.”
“So, he was telling the truth,” Alphonse said. “There is a way out.”
“And if what he says is true,” the Monsignor said, “with the journal, we won’t have to rely on Brent’s cooperation. Call me uncharitable, but I’m not particularly comfortable placing my trust in people who’ve attacked me.”
“Um, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Dona said, paging through the journal.
“You mean, he lied to us?”
Dona held up the open journal for them to see. “I can’t tell. The whole thing’s written in Tep’Chuan.”
Chapter Ten
Sacred and Profane
It was proving to be a late night for the Curator of Profanities. When he was younger, completing his lesson plans on time had been something he took for granted, but in those days, he hadn’t been prone to nodding off while writing them. He surveyed his handiwork and shook his head. In three separate places, his crabbed handwriting trailed off into an incoherent line, and he had several pages still to go. He shuddered to imagine what the bright-eyed seminary students must think of the doddering old priest who did his best to spoon feed them everything they needed to know on the dangers of heretical artifacts. He couldn’t afford to be incoherent—many of these students were destined to become Inquisitors—their very lives could depend on knowing what he had to teach. He tried to shake the sleep from his eyes, but it wasn’t working. He picked up his guttering lamp. Perhaps a walk to the kitchens would help lift the fog, and if that wasn’t enough, he could always grab a cup of tea.
The instant he stepped into the gallery, he knew something was amiss. The front door, which he had locked behind himself on the way in, was standing open, allowing light from a hallway lantern to stream into the room. Holding his lamp aloft, he scanned the myriad display cabinets and pedestals, looking for anything that might have been disturbed. Then, somewhere in the darkness he heard something—the subtle sound of cloth on cloth, as of someone shifting position.
His heart raced. He swung his lamp toward the noise and squinted into the semi-darkness. “Who’s there? You’re not allowed here.”
His voice held more authority than he felt. He waited, listening intently, but heard nothing else. The silence was so complete he began to doubt his memory of locking the door. If his mind could shut down on him during lesson plans, why not at other times? He laughed nervously and forced himself to breathe.
It’s not as though the door had been forced. Or, had it? He needed to be certain. As he got close, it creaked closed, revealing a figure swathed in priestly vestments whose dark eyes glittered in the lamplight.
“Albert?” the figure asked. “How have you been?”
The Curator’s eyes widened in recognition. “What are you doing here? I was told you’d been shipped off to spend your final years in quiet contemplation.”
“So I was. The contemplation was fine, but the quiet grew interminable.”
“And so you snuck away? Is that why you’re dressed like that?”
“They say clothes make the man.”
“Very funny. May I call you ‘Father,’ then? I wouldn’t want to give anything away.”
The old priest nodded. “That might be safest. So, what’s new in the world of Profanities?”
“Very little, actually.” Most of the things you see on display here still date back to Caprian. Fortunately, Armand hasn’t had to deal with any issues of that magnitude.”
“Now that you mention it, many of these things do look familiar. Is that the same old set of Harcourt wands?”
The Curator chuckled. “The very ones. I still can’t believe you actually triggered one. I thought Roman was going to have me defrocked. He had only just appointed me Curator.”
The old priest snorted. “I was only green for an hour or so. He would never have needed to know.”
“But even if he’d never found out, that kind of secret would have eaten away at me.”
“Where’s the prize of your collection?”
“You mean the Vis-à-vis wand?”
“As I recall, it used to take center stage here.”
“That hasn’t been out for some time. Since I’ve been teaching seminary students in the gallery, I’ve tried to display only those artifacts I know are mostly harmless, and we never really did figure out exactly what that wand was made to do.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” the old priest said, “and I’ve come up with a new hypothesis. Could we
take a look?”
The Curator sorted through the keys on his chain. “Well I suppose so, as long as we don’t spend all night at it. I have to teach come the morning, and I’m not done planning the lecture yet. So, what is this new insight?”
“I was trying to remember how it was put together. Didn’t it have an unusual handle?”
The Curator slipped on a pair of cotton gloves and unlocked a musty cabinet. “I always thought the whole thing was unusual. Ah, here it is.”
As the Curator reached into the cabinet, he felt something cold press against the side of his neck. He stiffened and sank to the floor.
The priest slid a ring onto a gnarled finger. “I’m sorry Albert, but I can’t risk your overactive conscience. And for future reference, Samulian’s Signet, in the wrong hands, is far from harmless.”
Reaching over the fallen Curator, the old priest carefully retrieved the precious wand from its resting place. The main shaft was light-colored and solid, possibly hickory, with the words Vis-à-vis emblazoned along its length. Even in the dim light there was no mistaking it—whereas most wands had an obvious handle and an equally obvious tip, Vis-à-vis sported handles at both ends. This odd configuration was itself enough to drive the Curator to touch it only using special precautions, such as the cotton gloves—he had no desire to trigger it, and there was no telling which end was safe.
Harboring no such qualms, his priestly friend grasped it by one handle and pressed the other firmly against the flesh on the back of the Curator’s wrist, just above the glove.
. . . . .
The discussion concerning what to do with the Bursar had been brief, and in Dona’s mind, disturbing. The thought of cooperating with her attacker galled her. Rubbing her back at the memory of his blade, she considered their predicament one more time in the hopes of finding a plausible strategy that didn’t include him, or failing that, a more convincing argument that he couldn’t be trusted. Alphonse had sided with her, but then, Alphonse was known for brandishing a sword to distract men with crossbows. The Monsignor’s position was simple: without a guide, their chances of navigating the hazards of the Ossarium were negligible. Besides, the Bursar had incentive to act in good faith, since the journal’s information was probably useless in the dark. Dona expected such arguments from the Monsignor, but she hadn’t foreseen Alexi would side with him as well. As much as she tried to tell herself Alexi’s defection wasn’t personal, that certainly wasn’t how it felt.
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