Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2)

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  III

  Lilith-Ishma held Tyrus close, but her attention fell on the black gore seeping from the flyer’s head. She hungered for that ichor, needed to kneel next to the thing and lap at its blood. The anticipation of the fluid touching her tongue both thrilled and repulsed her. Old memories told her the beasts were not edible. The flesh was poison, but hunger overrode fear. She clung to Tyrus until she controlled her urges.

  Fear of Dura helped. She watched her approach, an ancient woman bent over and leaning on her staff. The deep crimson of her robes highlighted her gray hair and pale skin as though the robes aged her and raised the question, when would the old witch die? Lilith needed a shield from Dura, so she mimicked a meaningful stare with Tyrus with prolonged eye contact and a flutter of her lashes. In his mind, she had to be the great lost love, vulnerable still, in need of protection. His face softened under her gaze, and she hated him more: so weak and gullible.

  “Don’t leave me with the Red Sorceress.”

  Tyrus whispered pleasantries that she ignored. Her fear was not an act. She watched Dura approach and fought an urge to grow her claws. The violent thoughts had to be controlled unless she wanted her eyes to glow. First, she must find the heir. Then she could kill these idiots. That meant fooling them longer than she had tried before. She wasn’t sure if she knew enough about Ishma, and she had a moment of inspiration—no one knew Ishma the prisoner. They remembered a queen and empress.

  “I should have known you’d succeed,” Dura said. “One day, you won’t. You’ll take a risk too many, and fate will punish you.”

  Tyrus said, “That is the way fate works.”

  Lilith decided she would speak as little as possible. She was the frail Narboran whore, abused and battered. The hardest part was suppressing a triumphant grin.

  Dura touched her ragged smock. “Can you fly in that? Isn’t it cold?”

  Lilith looked down, ashamed of her attire.

  Dura’s boney old fingers probed Lilith’s skin, hands, and face. This was the moment Lilith feared, a sorceress that rivaled Azmon probing the fake flesh hanging from her bones. She flinched when Dura took her chin, and Dura apologized.

  “You have no frostbite. That’s good. You remember me?”

  “Dura Galamor, of the Red Towers.”

  “I was younger when I married you. It’s been a long war.” Dura pushed a strand of hair away from Ishma’s face. “But you haven’t aged a day.”

  Would that be the mistake that doomed Lilith? She waited for the chill of sorcery, for Dura to touch the other world and become powerful. All she could do was grow her claws and gore the woman’s throat. The beating pulse in the neck attracted her, and she wondered what she tasted like. Did sagging wrinkles and liver spots taste different? She might kill Tyrus in the confusion, but it would cost her the heir. Thoughts of failing Azmon made her tremble.

  “She’s exhausted,” Tyrus said. “They kept her chained to a wall.”

  “Yes, of course. Come.” Dura gestured for them to follow. “The Gadarans want neither of you in Ironwall, but my tower is my domain. I have a private bath and servants, nothing as grand as Old Rosh, but you can feel human again.”

  Lilith halted mid-step. The idea of bathing shocked her, and she questioned the truthfulness of the phrase. Would it make her feel clean? She had loved water once, in her real life, and had another memory of a girl swimming in a lake. How long had it been since she had enjoyed a good steam? She couldn’t remember enough of her old life to know.

  “Come. There’s nothing to fear,” Dura said. “And it will take hours to unknot your hair.”

  Lilith wanted to bathe, but despite the distance from Shinar, she still felt Azmon’s will pushing her toward Marah.

  She asked, “Where is Marah?”

  “All things in good time. First, we will see to your wounds and clean you.”

  “I want to see my daughter.”

  “Of course you do. But you’ll frighten the child. She is safe. You are in seraphim lands now.”

  Fear of the seraphim appeared like agreement, a deep swallow and a nod. As they followed Dura to the gate, Lilith snatched glimpses of the clouds. The seraphim would not be fooled, and she wondered how active they were in Ironwall. They walked past dozens of walls as they hiked up the side of the mountain. At each wall, an iron gate closed behind them, and Lilith realized that escaping Ironwall with the heir would be the hardest trick.

  IV

  Einin rocked in a chair, watching Marah nap. The room had a small slit of a window, designed for archers, and dust motes danced in the sunlight. The ray of light hit the wall but not Marah. She slept, oblivious to the world. Her face embodied such contentment, without worry or nightmares, that she made Einin jealous. Naps were simpler now that they were home. They had furniture, chairs, and proper beds with feather mattresses. Einin used naps to study, but this time, she risked disturbing Marah to stroke her white hair.

  She tried to recall when Marah had become like her own daughter, but she didn’t remember a conscious decision. Like an illness, it had taken over by degrees. The sounds of the tower comforted, whereas before they had chafed. This place, like Marah, had grown on her. She still wanted to run, but good days were hard-won and should be cherished. From the doorway, she heard Dura’s staff ticking against the stairs.

  Dura entered. “Tyrus has returned.”

  “In one piece?”

  “Mostly.”

  “And you want me to find new homes for my guards?” Einin kept the rest to herself. The crone could be so petty. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “He did not return alone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Empress Ishma is with him.”

  Einin covered her mouth. Marah drew Dura’s attention while Einin worked her jaw. She had not thought she would see the empress again and assumed Azmon had killed her for treason.

  “Where is she?”

  “My servants draw a bath. She was kept in a tower, chained to a wall. It looks like someone used runes of misery to torture her.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She is not herself. I thought you might help her dress, and we can introduce her to the child together. She is a frightful mess.”

  Einin had stopped rocking, frozen. Part of her did not want to leave, but the hesitation cut deeper: she could not surrender her baby girl. Ishma would want Marah back. A wrenching sensation tore at her chest, making her gasp. She anticipated the loss as though Marah had died, and all her schemes involved running farther from Rosh, not bringing Ishma closer. A thought lessened her grief, though. Ishma would need a nurse, and Einin was the one she would trust. She could stay with Marah.

  “You should go, help her,” Dura said. “You might bring her out of her shell, but brace yourself before you see her. She was not treated well. I can watch the child while you’re gone.”

  “Thank you.”

  The servants drew the bath, and Einin reintroduced herself. Ishma didn’t seem to recognize her, which hurt. After all their work to ferret Marah out of the Roshan Empire, Ishma offered little more than a glance. Dura had been right, though: Ishma smelled terrible. Einin guided her to the bath by touching her as little as possible.

  On the lowest floor of the tower, there was a stone room without windows and a large porcelain tub decorated with gilt leaves. Candles glowed in the gold, and the bath looked like a lavish indulgence. The servants had filled it with boiling water, and the vapors filled the room until the air clung to the skin. Someone crushed cloves and rose petals into the water, giving the steam a pleasant aroma. Alone, together, they waited for the water to cool, and Einin helped Ishma out of her smock. She cracked the door to hand it to a servant.

  “Burn this, and bring me a replacement. I’ll need more washcloths and a comb with wider teeth.”

  She returned to see Ishma step into the simmering water. She had layers of gr
ime caked to her form, so the once-creamy skin appeared mottled. She resembled one of the gray skins, animal men that wallowed in the swamps and never bathed. The grime wasn’t all dirt, either. Einin could have sworn some of it was dried blood, but in the strangest of places.

  “Empress, the water is still too hot. You’ll scald yourself.”

  “Nonsense. I’m fine.”

  Einin went to her side and dipped a hand. She had to pull it back from water so hot that it bit. Ishma purred and stretched until her shoulders were submerged. A layer of gray silt rose to the surface, covering her figure. Einin could not fathom how the empress endured the burning.

  Servants returned with washcloths and combs. Einin had never bathed her before. When she had been Ishma’s lady in waiting, she had dressed her, styled her hair and jewelry, and painted her face—but Ishma preferred bathing alone. Einin set to work on the hair, tugging and pulling and apologizing, but Ishma never complained. By the time she had unknotted most of it, they needed servants to drain and refill the water. More buckets of boiling water steamed the room, and Ishma climbed in without flinching. What little skin showed beneath all the dirt was bright red.

  Einin washed away the filth. Ishma still had an amazing figure, and that surprised Einin. She would think months in a tower would age her or make her thinner. Her body looked like it had never given birth. Einin hoped to age half as well. Caked dirt eroded, and the bath muddied like a stagnant pond.

  Ishma relaxed her head, closed her eyes, and lifted a leg for Einin to clean. Einin used the shoulder of her dress to dab at her forehead. She would need a bath herself, having sweated through her clothes.

  “How long did the emperor keep you in a tower?”

  “My… husband has a terrible temper.”

  “I know. But—”

  “Be quiet. I have not had a bath in a long time.”

  “Yes, empress.”

  “Do not call me that.”

  “Yes, my queen.”

  Ishma frowned at her but let the comment go. Einin went to work on the foot first, the caked dirt between the toes. A curious thing, Ishma’s toenails were perfectly trimmed. The skin was also healthy underneath the dirt. Einin had expected layers of dead skin to rub away.

  Ishma asked, “Where is Marah?”

  “With Dura.”

  “And where is Tyrus?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He said he would not leave me.”

  “It isn’t proper for him; I mean, he can’t be at your side all the time. He doesn’t stray from the tower. The Gadarans aren’t fond of him.”

  “I want to know where he is—at all times.”

  “Of course, my queen. I will ask a guard to watch him. I am sure he is in the tower. When Dura doesn’t send him to train the men, he stays close to Marah.”

  She reclined again. “Good.”

  “Do you want to see her?”

  “Who?”

  “Your daughter.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Einin led Ishma up the stairs of the Red Tower. She wore a loose-fitting dress with a belt, and Einin had feared she would be upset at such plain clothes. Ishma ignored her dress and seemed to no longer care about appearances, which was odd. In their old life, Einin had spent hours helping her dress because Ishma had said appearances were like weapons for royals. Her wet hair, raven black, hung around her shoulders, leaving the dress damp. The empress moved without a sound; her bare feet padded up the stairs.

  They entered the top floor to find Dura rocking Marah. The child was awake, milky-white eyes open, chin resting on Dura’s shoulder. When Einin entered the room, Marah was fine, but when Ishma entered the room she sat up and pointed at the door.

  “No.”

  Surprised, Einin wondered how much the child could see. Then the screaming began. Marah made frantic hand signals and pounded on Dura’s shoulders. She clawed and climbed at Dura, trying to get behind her.

  Einin asked, “What is wrong?”

  “I’m not sure,” Dura said. “Calm down, child. Slower. I can’t understand you.”

  Marah made more gestures.

  Dura said, “That makes no sense.”

  Lilith-Ishma didn’t notice the commotion at first. The child screeched, which annoyed her, but she was still upset about her bath. She did not feel human. A silly thought, that the saying might hold true, but her filth rested beneath her skin. Her flaws could not be sponged away.

  The sound of a child crying stirred other memories. She’d had sons, once, but could not remember their names. She remembered a little boy, Marah’s age, crying for her, and she rocked him in a chair, similar to the one Dura had. She needed to remember his name. The name wasn’t like a forgotten word, dangling out of reach. She had no memory of it at all. His face was gone too. She could not remember her son’s face.

  Marah’s fear—Lilith smelled the urine—infuriated her. The rejection of a child, such honesty, hurt. Worse, she should remember her own children.

  Lilith asked, “What is she doing with her hands?”

  “She is talking,” Dura said. “Finger-speak.”

  “What is wrong with her?”

  “She is afraid.”

  “Let me hold her.”

  Lilith reached for the child, but Marah shrieked the word “no” in a dozen different pitches until the sounds became unintelligible.

  “It’s your mother.” Einin offered to take her, and Marah slapped her face. “Now see here. We don’t hit. This is your mother and queen.”

  “Give her time.” Dura pushed Einin back. “She doesn’t remember.”

  Lilith asked, “Why would she?”

  She watched the scene with a strange detachment. This was not her child, and her own children didn’t matter anymore. Her task was to get Marah out of Ironwall, and that meant either climbing the walls or walking through gates. She studied Einin first, wondering if taking her appearance gained her anything, but the obvious choice was Dura. She knew, from earlier, that Dura could command people to open gates, and she probably owned horses and guards. Lilith might have an armed escort out of Ironwall.

  The question was when to strike. How should she kill Dura? In her sleep, she decided. Then she would mirror her and kill Einin and Tyrus. That way would be best, the best order of revenge and the best disguise. At night, Lilith could move about the tower as silently as a shadow. The guards seemed to stay outside. Mirroring the old woman meant she could shuffle up close to Tyrus, and he wouldn’t suspect a thing. He’d be wary of sorcery, not claws.

  Marah’s outburst embarrassed Einin. She had never reacted this way to anyone before and usually took to people with a dignity beyond her years. The dwarves had complimented Einin several times for having such a well-behaved child, and now Marah worked herself into a trembling, snot-covered mess while rejecting the most important woman in Einin’s life.

  “Marah, enough is enough. This is your mother.”

  Marah’s little hands signed strange things that Einin didn’t recognize, and that sparked an angry thought. Dura taught the child things behind her back. She should know all the same signs as Marah.

  “Marah, calm down.”

  “No!”

  The child spoke the word with her whole body, eyes scrunched shut, chin wagging, fists pounding the air. She twisted and shouted it, each cry climbing an octave until the shrieks were unbearable.

  “Please, give us a moment,” Dura said. “I will try to calm her.”

  Ishma said, “I am hungry.”

  All Einin could do was look at the empress and think to herself, Really? At a time like this, you want food? Ishma appeared indifferent, bored. She surveyed the room with her hands on her hips and ignored her daughter. Einin gestured at the door and said she would show her the kitchen. Ishma headed down the stairs, and Einin followed but then doubled back.

  She whispered, “What are
those signs?”

  Dura shrugged. “She’s saying, ‘It is dead.’”

  “And where did she learn the sign for dead?”

  “It’s one of the Dusk Runes.”

  Marah nodded her head. She agreed with Dura but was still angry, and tears streaked down her face. Red welts blemished her ivory skin.

  Einin asked, “What do you mean it’s a rune?”

  “It makes no sense. She is either saying Ishma is dead or that she is a rune. I don’t know what is wrong.”

  “Nightmares again? A waking nightmare?”

  “She wasn’t this upset in the Deep Ward.”

  “Let me have her.” Einin wanted to cradle her in her arms until she calmed down again.

  “Ishma is waiting. Take her to the kitchen. The evening meal should be cooking, and you might find her something warm. I’m sure she hasn’t had a warm meal in months.”

  Einin sighed. “Of course.”

  The tasks gave her a purpose that she had not experienced in over a year. A queen needed attending, and that offered a sense of wholeness, of fulfilling her birthright. Einin belonged at Ishma’s side. Marah had calmed to sniffles and snorts, little huffs of exhaustion. If the child would act properly in front of her mother, things could return to a semblance of normality. As Einin went downstairs, she heard Dura repeating, “It will be all right, little one. Everything will be all right.”

  V

  Emperor Azmon sat on the Shinari throne, listening to reports. His lords and generals prepared for a siege, and he ignored most of what they said. He cared about how many beasts his lords could make in the coming days. Sums worked against them. There were only so many Shinari to be used for the summoning rites, and the bond with Lilith distracted him. Lack of real communication made it difficult, but he could tell that she had located her target and waited to strike. She was satisfied, enjoying herself. The link smacked of smugness. She hungered, and he thought she had Marah and Dura in one place.